


Never should I ever

by Siff



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, I am so mean to him, I made a few OCs for this one, M/M, Rated for future chapters, Slow Updates, lots of daryl!whump, no one really important, secret meetings, violence and threats of rape in later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Daryl's life got fucked up in one single night, all because of his brother, and the fact that he didn't know that the man he was fucking behind a bar was actually a cop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story had a slow birth. It all started when Daryl joked about being an undercover cop. The idea is just too good, but the more I wrote, the more it turned into something else entirely.  
> And thus, this came into being.
> 
> And it is my first WD-fic. No pressure.

“Where you goin’?” Merle yelled from his table, making nearly everyone in the bar look up at him. Daryl shrugged and tried not to flinch under the sudden attention.

“Just out.” He said and stuffed his hands further into his pockets. Merle turned in his chair, slapping his cards down on the table.

“Just as I’m about to beat these pussies?” Merle laughed as Hank threw an ice cube at his face and turned to punch him on the arm. Daryl shrugged again and ducked his head.

“Yeah.”

“Fine, fine, go play by yourself, Darlina.” Merle turned back to his card game, roaring with a laughter the others joined in. Larry, sitting at the bar, echoed Merle’s words and Daryl flipped him the bird, which only got a bigger response. Assholes.

He left the bar and made his way through the sea of bikes that were parked in front of it, and reached his own beaten-up truck. No matter how many times Merle had suggested it, or demanded it, Daryl had refused to get a bike. He wasn’t joining them, no way. Sitting around the bar drinking all day. He had other shit to do.

He climbed into his truck, ignoring the sound of glass shattering from within the bar, followed by yelling, and drove away. The streets were empty this late but Daryl still drove off the main road and keep to the long one. It took some time but the chance of being recognizes was less there. Constantly glancing at the clock on the display, he bit his lower lip, feeling excited and nervous at the same time.

He shouldn’t be doing this. If Merle found out he was dead. Stone-cold, rotting in the ground, dead. He pressed down on the gasser, urging his truck faster.

Finally he reached it. Rosie’s Bar. The place was far better than Jake’s. In every way.  First of it was for everyone, not just local gangs. Most of town spend their weekend nights at Rosie’s, even reckless school kids who dared sneak out to get drunk. Secondly, it was a fine place. Clean and with occasionally good music. Good people, good place, good booze. He didn’t belong.

Daryl parked a little down the road. Even if everyone was welcome, he didn’t want to raise attention. A few people knew his face, a few more his name. Didn’t need those two linked at this place. It took him a few minutes to work up the courage to go inside, and even then, he sneaked along the walls, keeping out of sight.

Rosie’s was packed. Loud country music was filling the cramped space where probably every name Daryl knew and more were gathered. Rosie, beautiful and fierce, was standing behind the counter, pulling out bottles of beer for the waiting customers.

Daryl quickly scanned the room, but when he didn’t find what he was looking for he felt his shoulders sag. Shit. And he was even late. He was taking a risk coming here. People would talk, and the only reason he did was… was…

He began biting at his lip again, weighing if it was worth waiting or if he should just go home.

The decision was taken for him as a hand grabbed his shoulder and a voice whispered in his ear from behind. “Waiting for me?”

Habit made him flinch, and he jerked away and turned until he faced _him_. Relief surged through him but he did his best to hide it. He ducked his head and looked away.

“Like ‘ell. I aint waitin’ for no one.” He grumbled but it was no use.

“Admit it,” Rick smiled - and hell it that didn’t tug at his own mouth - and took a step closer, pressing Daryl back against the wall, “You would’ve waited all night.”

Avoiding the other man’s piercing gaze, Daryl swallowed and unintentionally pressed himself as far back as he could. He wanted to shake his head, to say it wasn’t true. But the thing was that he didn’t know if it was true, and now he would never know.

His heart was beating violently and they were out in the open. Even the looming darkness of the bar, anyone looking their way would spot them pressed so close together. He couldn’t let that happen, and the other man must have known he was pressing it, for he leaned away and squeezed Daryl’s shoulder before jerking his head towards the bar.

Daryl breathed in relief and nodded, and then he followed Rick.

Rick.

That was all he knew about the man. His name. His first name.

Nearly two months and eighteen meetings – not that he kept count or anything – and all he had was a name. He still hadn’t decided if it was enough. In the beginning it had been enough, more than enough. For both of them. Rick probably knew less about Daryl than he about him. Rick was a talker, so a few personal things had slipped out during their meetings. But not enough to know, to _really_ know. And it was best like that. What they had wasn’t anything special or personal. It was short, rough and _unknown_ all the way through.

Personal meant knowing, and other people knowing. And he couldn’t afford that. It was safer like this.

Rosie handed them both a beer and they each took a stool by the bar. For a few minutes they just enjoyed the drink. It was good stuff, better than the crap Merle brought at Jake’s. _Fancy fox-piss_ , Merle would call it.

He shook his head. No thinking about Merle now. Instead he took a swig from his beer and glanced sideways at Rick.

He was looking pretty fine this evening. Wearing a dark-red shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It was pretty tight, hugging his lean body closely. Both his hair and beard had grown longer since their first meeting, making him look slightly wilder. Daryl kinda liked that. He couldn’t deny liking the feeling of the beard either.

Rick turned his head and their eyes met. Startling blue, those eyes. Rick smiled at him and Daryl looked away.

It had been awkward at the beginning. Not the first time. That had been quick and without much talking. The first handful of times after that had been real awkward. They had both known they wanted it and both lacked whatever skills they needed to get it with.

It had taken time, but now they could just sit in each other’s company and wait. Wait for them to get enough drunk, or impatient, or for it to get late enough. He had no idea what they would end up waiting for tonight.

They made small talk. Rick asked how it went at the garage where Daryl worked. One of the very few things about himself Daryl had let Rick know. He didn’t know what Rick did. All he really knew what that the man used to be married. High school sweetheart. Their marriage had gone to shit for some reason and Rick had begun spending his nights at Rosie’s, drinking to the small hours.

Daryl tried not to ask. He was curious about what made a man like Rick, clean-cut and straight as an arrow, suddenly go drinking and hanging out with the likes of Daryl. He didn’t complain, not at all, but he was confused. Surely there were others, better, more suited than Daryl for this. Yet, Rick always came looking for _him_ at Rosie’s. And Daryl always made sure he was there to be found.

Their one beer became two, then three. When the fifth suddenly became the sevenths, their small talk had turned from quiet and low, to snickering and more than dirty. They had enough sense to keep it at a low level in the public space, but the touches became freer. Their knees were pressed together, and they made a number out of brushing their elbows together and taking the bottles from each other’s hands, letting their fingers stroke.

No one seemed to notice, and people slowly left the bar as the night went on. They waited. Rosie gave them new drink and smiled, and Rick talked so easily with her, Daryl wondering how well he knew her. She called him by name and often made him laugh, winking at Daryl with a grin as she did.

He felt his face heat up when she did that, but then Rick would smile at him in that way he did, and Daryl wouldn’t mind Rosie’s wink at all. It wasn’t like she meant anything by it. Sometimes it felt like she knew but she never said nothing. Not a word and Daryl had to like her for that.

He always knew when Rick had enough. Enough of the waiting. He would look at Daryl, smile gone and eyes dark, and Daryl would feel his heart beat a little faster.

When he did it, Daryl had to swallow and wet his lips as his mouth suddenly became impossible dry. Rick emptied his bottle and glanced at the door, then back at Daryl. He took the hint and nodded. They paid; or rather Rick did, pushing the crumbled money back towards Daryl. They left together, silent and hopefully without drawing attention.

Rick led them towards his car, parked as far away from the bar without actually leaving the area. The lights from the building didn’t reach than far and no one else had parked there. As soon as they reached it, Rick grabbed Daryl by his jacket and all but slammed his back against the car before attacking his mouth roughly.

Daryl groaned into it. This was everything he needed. Rick pressed himself against Daryl, moving his hands from his jacket to his hair, keeping them together. It was too much and at the same time not enough at all. He needed more. He surged up into the kiss, biting and groaning against Rick’s lips.

They broke apart when the need for air became too much and Rick pressed their foreheads together. Gasping for air, Daryl could felt his blood pound through him, deafening him and making his head swirled as fingers reached down between them, tugging at his belt. Rick moved his head down and Daryl tilted his head sideways without thinking.

Teeth scraped against the skin of his neck and he moaned as they sank in painfully. His knees nearly gave out as Rick licked in apology and then continued sucking at the tender spot. The fingers had never stopped their movement, and Daryl had to latch on to both Rick’s shoulder and the car or he would have fallen.

“Fuck.” Rick panted as he tugged at Daryl’s pants, brushing against his dick and making Daryl moan. He was so hard. Painfully so. He needed this, needed Rick.

He threw his head back as Rick finally got his pants open and stuck his hand inside. Fingers closed around Daryl and he had to bite the back of his hand of he would groaned too loudly. Rick tugged his hand away and kissed him again, hard and forceful and damn perfect. Daryl sunk into it all. The lips against his own, the fingers curled around him, stroking him within the tight space of his pants.

Rick pressed himself up against him and Daryl felt how hard the other man was, rutting against him. It wasn’t enough.

“Rick… hell…” words made no sense in his head or in his mouth, but Rick understood, or was just as desperate as he was. With a growl he removed his hands from Daryl, leaving his gasping and moaning the sudden lost of a warm body against him, and then grabbed him roughly and turned him around. He pressed him against the car and Daryl tried to brace himself against the cold steal, heart pounding in anticipation and relief as it finally happened.

Behind him he heard the sound of a belt being opened, and soon hands were tugging his pants down and cold air hit his ass. But then Rick pressed against him and he moaned as he felt Ricks cock pressed against his crack, rubbing against his skin.

They both knew there wasn’t time for more. Rick grabbed him by the hips and trusted against his ass, sliding their skin together. Daryl bit his hand, keeping as quiet as he could as Rick leaned in and breathed in his ear. Words washed over him as Rick told how good he was, how fucking perfect and hot, and how he wished for nothing but to fuck him for real.

Daryl clung to the car, fingers gliding across the metal. The feeling of Rick so close, _so close_ , grabbing him and pounding against him with nothing but lust and need was nearly too much. It had become so much already, compared to their first night behind the bar, but he needed more.

He ached with need, and the hot breath across his ear and the sloppy kiss along his neck only made him spiral further down into the pleasure. He didn’t beg. He wanted to, hell, he wanted to. To beg Rick to take him for real, to press into him and fuck him like there was no tomorrow. To take his throbbing cock in his hand and give him some release, but he didn’t. He breathed with a shudder and pressed his forehead against the car, enjoying how Rick’s movements became more rapid and uncontrolled. In the end he didn’t need to beg.

Rick sneaked his hand between Daryl and the car, finding his cock and stroked it fast and hard.

“Fuck, fuck, Daryl…” Rick gasped almost desperately, and knowing he was doing this to the other man made his cock twitch in Rick’s hand. Rick mouthed along his neck and down to his shoulder; his hands still on his hips and a thumb moved under his shirt and stroked his skin. Shit, he was close. The hand on him urged him forward, but it wasn’t until Rick bit down, teeth digging hard into his already sore skin that he came.

Biting down hard on his own lip, he came with a muffled groan. Head thrown back, he came over Rick’s hand and the side of the car. Rick pumped him until he was done, letting him slump forward to rest his head on his forearm, before grabbing his hips roughly. Daryl tried to catch his breath as Rick continued to chase his own pleasure, rubbing against him until he stilled with a throat-deep groan, and Daryl felt him twitch and come across his skin.

Rick leaned against him, pressing him against the car where they just stood for a few seconds, trying to catch their breath. Rick rested his head between Daryl’s shoulders, breathing hard as he stroked Daryl down the hips and across the ass.

Daryl ignored how good it felt. Told himself it wasn’t anything he enjoyed.

He didn’t do this shit. Tender words and touches wasn’t what he wanted, what Rick wanted. He told himself that as his body slowly calmed down and reason returned. He closed his eyes and hid his face in the crook of his arm as Rick slowly pulled back. He already missed the heat.

God, he was so fucked.

Swallowing hard, he reached down and fixed his pants. He heard the rustled of fabric behind him as Rick did the same. He didn’t turn around until Rick gently tugged at his arm, turning him slowly. He kept his gaze lowered, not meeting the blue eyes before him.

This was the part that always stayed awkward. None of them really knew what to say or do, and after a few mumbled words Daryl would usually flee and run to his truck. He readied himself and was about to do just that, when a warm hand suddenly grabbed him gently by the neck.

Startled, he jerked his head up to find Rick looking at him with those damn blue eyes, and with something Daryl didn’t know what was, written all over his face. Unsure what to say or do, Daryl waited, trying not to get lost in the feeling of fingers gently rubbing along the base of his skull.

Rick kept looking at him in that weird way, like he was searching for something. If he found it or not, Daryl didn’t know, but his thoughts swirled as Rick leaned in and pressed their lips together. It was nothing like before. It lacked the heated lust and force, and instead was tender and… caring.

It made his heart flutter in a new way and he had to pull back. Rick looked hurt and Daryl quickly shook his head and gave him a small smile, hoping he understood.

Apparently he did. Rick grinned and gave him another short kiss, before letting his hand slip down Daryl’s neck. Down his chest where it rested warm like fire, burning him even through his shirt, before stepping back.

“Tomorrow?” Rick asked, sounding a little hopeful.

Trying to gather his thoughts, Daryl took a step aside so he wasn’t trapped between the car and Rick. He was thankful when Rick even took a step back, giving him his space.

“Can’t,” Daryl finally said, not meeting Rick’s gaze, “Got… somethin’ ta do.” Of course he couldn’t say what. Couldn’t say was Merle who was dragging him along, and he couldn’t say how much he would rather meet up with Rick instead.

For a second, Rick looked disappointed, but then he smiled and nodded. He moved past Daryl and opened the door in the driver’s seat of the car. Daryl felt his heart sink, not expecting Rick to just take off like that. Normally he’d the one to go, not Rick.

But he worried for nothing. Rick bowed into the car and then straightened up with something in his hands. Daryl eyes widened as Rick scrambled down something with a pen on a small piece of paper which he then handed to Daryl.

Face a little red, Rick smiled, “Call me when you’re free.”

Daryl’s hand moved on its own and took the paper, quickly stuffing it into his jacket pocket. He tried not to put too much into the way Rick’s face lit up as he did it, and instead just nodded.

Suddenly feeling caught in something out of his control, Daryl quickly mumbled a hasty goodbye and turned towards his truck. There was no sound of Rick’s car starting, so he knew the other man watched him as he made his way down the road.

He didn’t feel at ease before he slammed the door and grabbed the wheel. This was deep shit. Really deep.

Slowly he reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper. Rick’s number.

“Fuck.” He whispered and leaned back in his seat. Biting his lip, he curled the paper up in his hand and threw it to the floor of his truck.

He couldn’t keep doing this. Merle would fucking kill him.

He started his truck, but before shifting it into gear; he reached down and picked up the paper and stuffed it back into his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter. Slow update indeed. I actually had to split this one up in two; it was just too long to handle at the moment. Doesn't mean the other part will be up soon, though. Will take awhile. Sorry
> 
> Aside from that, thank you to all who have taken time to leave kudos and comment. I'm overwhelmed. Thank you so much!!! I hope you’ll enjoy this!

It was annoying as hell.

That little piece of paper with some random numbers on it. Except they weren’t random at all. Everything but, actually. He wanted them to be meaningless. Just a few numbers on an old receipt. Meaningless and boring, and not everything that occupied his thoughts from the very second he accepted it.

For it did. Every damn second.

He never should have taken it. It changed everything. Before, it had been simple. Not easy with all the sneaking around, but still very simple. Before, it had just been two drunken people getting off, helping each other out with some tension. Simple and so _fucking good_.

Fucking good but far from easy. It was a constant struggle, trying to keep it all a secret.

Merle could never find out. He would kill him if he did. And even if he didn’t want to, the gang would demand it and his hands would be tied. No one amongst them fucked men. First fucking rule of their little group. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a member. They would beat him to an inch of his life and if he was lucky, put a bullet in his brain. If worse came to worse, they would probably pull out tools. Cut and beat and twist until he looked like nothing he had been before. And Merle would have to let them if he wanted to stay top-dog.

Now Merle always said that kin came before anything else, but Daryl wasn’t stupid enough to test his words.

And even if he could know, even If it wasn’t dangerous as hell, Daryl would never tell Merle.

Rick was… something else. Something very different from everything he knew. Everyone he knew. And that was even despite the fact he didn’t know Rick at all.

He knew nothing of the man, except his name and that he once had been married. Didn’t matter though, he didn’t need to know more. None of them did. They met, did their thing, agreed on when they would meet again, and then took off. Simple.

No strings, no relations, no feelings and no complications.

Until that little piece of fucking paper.

Rick never should have given it. And he never should have taken it. The world had shifted when he did. It had changed, _they_ had changed.

The simplicity about them and their small meetings had changed, and he didn’t know the rules now. He had never played this game, and honestly never though he ever would. He knew though, that the paper had broken the unspoken agreement that had held them together. The not-knowing. Rick did his talking and let things slip. He wasn’t so careless. He never said nothing, not a word.

But he had taken the paper. He had opened the door that had not existed before, and by that made way so the unknown could, _would_ be known.

Phone-numbers, names, jobs, families and friends, _identities_ , it were all connected and one usually led to another. For all he knew, Rick could be a fake name. He had been married after all.

Men, who went through the trouble of fucking strangers in bars in the middle of the night, usually had good reason, or someone to hide it all from. Rick had a life and Daryl wasn’t meant to be a part of it, just like Rick could never be a part of his.

But now he had his number, which meant Rick probably was his real name. Real name and real number. What came next?

He didn’t know if he wanted to know more, he just knew Rick could never know more about him. Merle’s gang wasn’t exactly popular around town, and sharing his brother’s name automatically linked him to them. One of the reasons he had never played this game before. What girl, or guy, with any good sense would ever get mixed up with the likes of him?

No, Rick could never know. If he did he would never see him again.

Daryl nearly cursed himself. Two months, and he already feared losing Rick, losing what they had. And what did they have? It was ridiculous. He could fuck anyone. Many had made a move at him but he had refused. More since he’d met Rick.

Rick. Fucking Rick.

Fucking Rick and his fucking paper.

He should have thrown it out and be done with it. But they had not agreed on a new night, and he didn’t have the time to wait at Rosie’s every night in hope of Rick showing up.

He only kept it so they could agree on their next meeting, nothing more. Then he would curl it up and throw it out, and they would be back on track. Simple and safe.

But he couldn’t do it at home since they didn’t have a phone, and doing it at Jake’s was right out of the question. So at work it was.

He had to wait until the end of the day. He waited until Ted and John went home, working slower on the car than usually. It had been a slow day at the garage anyway, so no one noticed, and they barely a customer. Still there was enough to do. He fixed the two cars they currently had in, and ordering spare parts to the ancient Ford Mrs. Dawns refused to get rid of.

He waited until Ted said his goodbye and left, before he slowly found the paper from his back pocket where it felt like it had been burning all day. His fingers left black oil marks on the white paper as he walked into the boss’ office and sat down before the phone.

Biting his lip, he picked up the phone and slowly dialed the number. And then hung up.

He couldn’t. It was impossible. He just had to accept he would never see Rick again and be free for all this shit. He went back to the car and crawled beneath it.

Then he crawled out again and went back into the office, staring at the phone like it might attack him.

“Come on, Dixon, don’t be a fucking pussy.” He mumbled and sat down again.

He dialed and this time he didn’t hang up. But he was close, especially when the call was answered much sooner than he had expected.

“ _Hello?_ ”

It was Rick. No doubt. Daryl bit his lip hard, not knowing what to say. What the hell did you say?

“ _Hello? Who is this?_ ” Rick asked a little impatiently.

“It’s me.” he said and then had to clear his throat since it came out all hoarse. “Daryl…” the change was instant.

“ _Daryl!_ ” Rick said, sounding way too happy “ _Oh shit, I didn’t think you would call me so soon. I’m glad._ ”

Daryl closed his eyes. Rick was glad he called. Fuck. “Yeah, just wanted to say that…” Say what? Hell if he knew. “I’m free tomorrow. Are you?”

There was a short pause on the other end and Daryl felt his heart nearly skip a beat. “ _Sure, but only after ten. You okay with that?_ ”

He bit at his skin on his thumb, “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, so… see you there?”

“ _Right. See you, Daryl_.”

Daryl slammed the phone down harder than necessary and literally fled from the office. Damn, that had been hard. He felt like his body was humming and he tried to walk it off. Around the garage and the cars, biting at his thumb until he tasted blood.

Deep shit, very deep shit. He felt like he was in to over his head, drowning. He didn’t know how to swim in this.

The deep roaring sound of bikes driving up to the garage, and Merle yelling his name made him stop his pacing. Right, the job. He heard laughter from the other men and quickly went around gathering his things. Without thinking, he stuffed the paper down his front pocket before grabbing his jacket and keys.

He locked up the place and slowly made his way out to his brother and what seemed to be half the gang. It had gotten dark early and the lights from the bikes nearly blinded him.

“There he is!” grinned Merle from somewhere to his right, “Finally playin’ with the big boys, aren’t ya, baby brother?”

Daryl wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead just shrugged and went to unlock his truck. He just wanted to get this over with. This whole night, get it done and over with so tomorrow could come. Merle cracked another joke about him and the men laughed. Daryl suddenly knew drowning was the least of his problems. He was surrounded by sharks too, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that it was only a matter of time before they smelled blood.

\---

Merle had talked him into it two weeks prior.

It was the same song he used every time. How he needed him, how brothers stuck together, how this was his chance be to a part of the gang.

Daryl had refused every single time. He didn’t care about the gang, and while he cared about Merle, he wasn’t going to risk his neck by doing _that_.

But Merle had caught him on the bed.

He had pounded on the door, jolting Daryl out of his sleep, and yelled for him to get his ass moving. Daryl had long ago learned to lock his bedroom door, or he would be awoken most morning with a bucket of ice-cold water.

Feeling like his head would split from a hangover; he had stumbled out of bed and hastily pulled on some random clothes he grabbed from the floor. When he opened the door, Merle had given him the widest grin. The slightly mad grin that only meant one thing and Daryl knew what he was going to ask.

But before his brother could ask and he could refuse, Merle’s smile disappeared and his hand shot out and grabbed Daryl’s shirt. Sleepy and with a bad hangover, Daryl didn’t manage to react before Merle had twisted the fabric and pulled it aside, exposing his shoulder.

“The fuck?” Merle had said, and Daryl’s brain finally caught up. He looked down at his shoulder, clearly seeing the mark. A dark bruise, with clear teeth marks in a nearly perfect circle. He remembered. Rick.

“That’s where you were last night? Bangin’ some bird with fangs?” Merle smirked, running a finger across the mark. It gave a jab of pain and Daryl slapped his hand away, and pulled his shirt back so it again covered his skin.

“Fuck off, Merle!”

“No, tell me. Come on, baby brother. Who was it?”

Daryl backed away, “No one, man. Leave it.”

Merle grunted and crossed his arms, “Don’t shit me, Darlina. You never had a bird before. What’s so special ‘bout this one?”

Panic slowly started to crawl over Daryl skin. He couldn’t tell Merle about Rick. There was no way his brother would react well to that at all. Besides, he was shitty at lying. Merle could always tell.

Not wanting Merle to see his face, he ducked his head and let his hair fall before his eyes. He backed into his room, feeling his skin crawl as Merle followed him in. Fearing his hands might begin to shake; he sat down on the bed and began to pull on his boots. Merle kept asking, and asking, nudging him and teasing, and Daryl mind raced with any kind of story that he thought his brother would buy.

He came up empty, and finally had to grab the last solution.

“What’d ya want, Merle?” he asked loudly, cutting of another question. Merle’s face was blank for a second and then he smiled.

“Damn, nearly forgot. I need your help, brother, Michael is out after the fight last night, and will be for a good while. We need an extra pair of hands.”

He didn’t elaborate on what he needed help for. He didn’t need to.

“A move or a deal?” he just asked, and Merle grinned widely, clearly thrilled that Daryl hadn’t refused or punched him like in the face like he used to when he asked.

“A deal.” He said, “Old friend, but still a smart fuck. Gonna bring his men and so will I. Might need you in case he tries anything unwise.” He laughed, like the mere idea was foolish. Daryl had to agree. Merle’s gang was trigger-happy. Any funny business would only end in chaos.

“When?”

Merle smirked, “Tell ya later, just be ready when I say.”

“Fine.” Grunted Daryl and pushed Merle out of his way, leaving his small bedroom.

“Where ya goin’ now?”

“To work!”

\---

Daryl followed the bikers, thinking about everything but where they were going. He shouldn’t have said yes to this, but it was too late.

They drove for about an hour. The garage Daryl worked at was located outside of the town borders. Kind of a last stop between town and the highway. Easy access for townies, and they always had confused tourist coming in with some car trouble. Easy access and easy money.

Jake’s was on the opposite side of town. A small hour it took to drive through and down the main street, where shops were closing. Daryl just followed the bikes and shut his brain off, trying not to think about anything.

Jake’s looked like it always did. Old, worn-down and a place no sane person would ever drink. Bikes filled the driveway which only got smaller as they parked theirs. Daryl locked his truck and saw how Merle crawled down from his bike. The other riders went inside, laughing and slapping each other on the shoulders.

Merle waved him over and he reluctantly joined his brother.

“Here’s the deal,” Merle said and slung and arm around Daryl’s shoulder, holding him tight as he tried to get free. “Corner is old school. Like his drama and shit, gonna show up with half his goons. I need you to do what you do best, baby brother.”

“An’ what’s that?” Daryl asked.

Merle smirked at him, “Glare, brother, glare at him like he just fucked that bird of yours.”

“Shut up.” Daryl muttered and pushed Merle’s arms off him. He knew what Merle meant by it all and he almost felt relief. At least he didn’t have to test the stuff or anything. Merle dragged him inside by the arm, joking and talking shit, and Daryl felt a very uneasy feeling settle in his stomach.

 ---

“I was married once.” Rick suddenly said. Daryl nearly choked on his beer and stared at him.

“What?”

“Married,” said Rick without looking at him. He scratched the back of his head and kept his eyes on the bottle in his hand. He turned it back and forth, “Nearly fifteen years.” After a beat or two, Daryl just hummed. He took a swig from his beer to avoid having to say anything. Rick didn’t seem to mind his silence. He stared at the bottle like it had the answers to the world itself.

Daryl watched his fingers around the glass, finally spotting what he had missed for so long. The ring. Damn thing looked like it had been on that finger forever.

He wondered what Rick was up to, to just drop something like that on him. Did he want sympathy? Smalltalk? Was he giving Daryl an explanation for all this? For them?

For last night?

“What happened?” he wasn’t sure why he asked the question. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

Rick smiled sadly at him.

“I have no idea.”

\---

All in all, everything went smoothly in the beginning. Corner Hall and seven men arrived barely two hours later, their cars driven with the headlights shut. The ten men Merle had trusted from his gang all cracked their knuckles loudly as Corner entered, and Daryl rolled his eyes. Alpha-macho-crap.

He had never been present with anything Merle’s gang did, and even now, he hid himself as far away from anyone. He pressed himself into a corner, trying to be as small as possible. He watched as Merle and Corner spoke about the stuff. He watched as Liam laid out a line and sniffed it all up, before giving Merle thumbs up. Merle then had his men bring out the crates with the guns. Corner looked like a kid in a candy store. The weapons were inspected, even tried, much to the amusement to everyone in the bar but Daryl.

Joking and talking and finally, Merle and Corner shook on it and drinks were served while the bags and crates changed hands.

With a heart pounding in his throat, Daryl was nearly hopeful enough to think it all might end peacefully. But as Liam handed him as glass whiskey with a dopey grin, the door to Jake’s was kicked in and all hell broke loose.

\---

It all happened so fast. Later he would only remember pieces, but in the moment, everything happened so clearly before him.

The cops kicked in the door and started yelling. Both Corner’s and Merle’s gang reacted instantly and drew their guns. Bullets flew through the air and men on both sides crashed to the floor or hid behind tables and chairs, hoping to avoid being shot.

Someone grabbed Daryl’s jacket and pulled him down behind a tipped over table. A gun was pushed into his hands and he just stared at the weapon. It was black and heavy clenched between his fingers. The guy who had pulled him down yelled at him to shoot, before he himself raised his gun over the table’s edge and fired a few times.

The noise was deafening. The cops were yelling, the gangs were yelling, and bullets flew over his head, hitting and burying themselves into the wall behind him.

“Shoot, Daryl! Shoot!” someone yelled, but Daryl stayed down. The gun was cold in his sweaty hand and he wanted to drop it, only his fingers seemed to be frozen, locked around the grip.

“Out of the way, boy!” Merle yelled as he dropped down beside him. Merle.

Relief surged through Daryl and he dropped the gun. He reached out and got Merle by the arm, but his brother pulled free and instead fired his own weapon over the table, yelling all the time.

“Let’s get out of here!” Daryl yelled.

“Fucking hell!”

“ _Lay down your weapons!_ ”

It was hard separating the voices. The police were screaming at them and Merle was yelling loudly beside him.

Daryl reached for Merle again, but his brother didn’t even look at him.

“Merle!” he yelled, “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

“Never run from a fight, Darlina.” Merle yelled back, a wide grin on his face. He fired his gun until it clicked, then threw it aside and pulled another one he had tucked down the back of his pants.

“Merle!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as bullets whistled past them. Finally he seemed to listen. Looking at him with strange eyes, Merle finally lowered the gun.

“Fine, fine. Let’s go.” he said and grabbed Daryl’s arm.

The table exploded in a sea of splintered wood. Daryl screw his eyes shut and felt it hit him in the face, the force of it knocking him backwards. He felt pieces of the table rain over his skin and he shielded himself the best he could. Merle’s hand was gone just like that and when he finally dared to look again, his brother was gone.

The gunfire was still sounding around him, but far less loud than before. The yelling was louder though. From where he was lying on the floor, face inches from the back wall, he had a perfect view of some of the gang-members running out through the backdoor.

Scrambling to his feet, Daryl tried to follow. Someone yelled at him to stop and then something slammed into him. He crashed against the wall and slid down, a heavy weight settling on his back.

He cursed as his hands were pulled back and held in a tight grip.

Twisting around, he looked up and saw a man sitting on him, dressed in a police uniform.

A smug part of his brain was busy saying _told you so_ , while the rest was cursing Merle through every hell imaginable.

For a while the bar was looking like a war-zone, Daryl could see it clear enough and knew Merle wasn’t there anymore. He must had left with the others.

He was gone and he had left Daryl behind. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know nothing about gangs and gang-related violence. I tried watching Sons of Anarchy, to get a better picture of it all, but then Game of Thrones began again and, well…
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the rest of the second chapter. It’s short but I couldn’t do anything about at the moment.  
> Again, thank you for the kudos and the comment. From now on I’ll try to answer them.
> 
> Also, totally forgot to say last time. Jake’s bar and Merle’s gang (Savage Sons Motorcycle Club) are kindly borrowed from the WD game Survival Instinct. I actually liked that game. Some of the gang members are borrowed from the game too. 
> 
> I think that’s it for now. Enjoy!

It was perhaps the twelfth, or maybe thirteenth time they met, that Rick scraped off the label of his beer with a nail and asked without looking at Daryl, “Have you ever wanted to met… somewhere… other than here?”

It had been a fucked up day. Merle had been a pain in the ass and work had been one disaster after another. The burn on his palm still hurt like a bitch, even with the cold beer bottle pressed against it.

He had been in a foul mood since he left the garage, and it had followed him into the bar. For a few moments he had been tempted to just go home instead, but he knew he would regret it the following day. It had been nearly a week since their last meeting and Daryl was getting an itch.

Not showing up was not really an option. Rick would take it wrong and maybe not show his face again. And even if he didn’t show and Rick didn’t hold it against him, how the hell would he know when they could meet again? It was a no brainer.

Still, his mood was bad, and it must have shown more than he wanted it to. Rick had waved him over to a table and paid for their drinks, but after he had taken a long look at Daryl expression, he hadn’t said much other than a quick greeting. For that Daryl was grateful.

It made him feel guilty, showing up like that. Rick had come to have fun, not to sit beside a brooding redneck all night, but Daryl couldn’t help it. The day had just been shit.

Still, he tried. As they drank, Rick had made small talk. Nothing special, just commenting about some of the regulars he recognized at Rosie’s. After an hour, Rick had given up on the talk and instead pushed his chair closer to Daryl’s, letting their arms touch.

For some reason, Daryl allowed it. He considered shifting away from the touch – people could see them! – but he didn’t feel like it. The touch, light as it was, was actually nice. Comforting.

Time was slow, with the two of them just sitting in an agreed silence, drinking. Daryl was grateful that Rick somehow understood that this was what he needed. How the man knew, he couldn’t wrap his mind around.

While he drank, careful of his burned hand, he kept glancing down at their arms. Rick’s hand was close to his own. If he moved his little finger just an inch, it would touch Rick’s.

He caught himself staring at their hands. Even in the sparse light of the bar, he clearly saw the difference.

They were nearly pure opposites. Daryl’s hands were tanned by wind and weather, and years of work. His nails were bit down and smears of oil he hadn’t managed to wash off were ebbed in the skin by the joints of his fingers. A scar here and there and a week old healing cut on his middle finger.

Rough hands telling a rough story. Rick was different.

The skin on Rick’s hand was a little paler. His fingers were long and slender, elegant some might say. His wedding ring was like a dark shadow against his skin, the thick, golden band gleaming slightly in the light. The sight of it made something turn inside Daryl and he had to drink to get rid of the dry feeling in his mouth.

Rick was wearing a dark shirt, sleeved rolled up to his elbow as usual. Like his fingers, Rick’s wrist and arm was slender, but powerful looking. He wasn’t a weak man, which Daryl had been proven more than a few timed already. There was strength in those limbs and Daryl felt a tingle run down his back, thinking back to their last meeting.

It was the first time that night he felt something other than brooding or numbness, and he welcomed it, thinking the night might still be saved.

His eyes shifted from their hands to Rick’s face. The other man was staring out into nothing, pursing his lips slightly as he seemed to be lost in thought. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the stubbles covering his face made him look darker, wilder. Daryl decided he liked that look on him.

Rick then turned his head and smiled pleasantly at him. Daryl ducked his head out of instinct, hiding his eyes behind hair that he had let grow lately, and looked down at their hands where his was suddenly touching Rick’s.

Heat flamed up his cheeks and he turned his head away, hearing Rick chuckle slightly beside him. He wondered if he should move his hand away, then blushed even more. He had wondered? What the hell? Why had he even wondered? What could he possible gain by keeping his hand pressed up against Rick’s?

The other man answered his question for him. Rick turned his hand so it faced palm up with his fingers open in an invitation. Daryl took it. With a pounding heart, he slowly let his hand move over until it was lying in Rick’s. His skin was soft and warm against his own hand, which suddenly felt very cold.

He didn’t look but he knew Rick was smirking. He was about to say something snarky, but then his fingers brushed against the ring. Beside him, Rick’s breath hitched and Daryl jerked his hand back, quickly placing it the table again.

Fucking hell.

Daryl felt the thrill of it all drain away, only to be replaced by bitterness. What the fucking hell.

Rick had been married. Married. He once had a wife.

He had slept in a bed with her, kissed her, held her. Loved her.

He’d had a whole other life before all this. Before them. How could Daryl ever-

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt something hot run over his hand. He looked down and saw Rick’s hand covering his. The wedding band still glittered in the light, but he barely felt it against the scarred skin of his knuckles.

He looked up at Rick who smiled at him. A kind, open smile. Wanting nothing but seeming to be offering everything.

They hadn’t said anything during this little… thing. Daryl once again felt the darkness of his own thoughts move away in favor of something else, something he _really_ shouldn’t be feeling, or thinking.

He had nearly found a peace of mind he could handle, when Rick asked him the question.

“What?” he asked, sounding dumb even to his own ears.

Rick licked his lips nervously, still not looking at Daryl. “Meet,” he said, “Outside of the bar. Somewhere… somewhere else.”

Daryl waited a few seconds, making sure Rick wasn’t going to burst out laughing. Like this was just some joke, a jest to try and lift Daryl’s mood. But no. The man was gravely serious. He even met Daryl’s wide, confused eyes with his own, the question still lingering in those blue orbs.

The dryness in his mouth was back. 

“You’re kiddin’ right?” Daryl asked. Rick nodded without even blinking. Fuck.

Stalling for time, Daryl looked around, but the bar was silent and with only a handful of patrons. It was a Wednesday night after all. They were sitting with their backs to the rest of the room. Their talk and handholding – fucking hell! – was safe from prying eyes.

Finally he dared to turn back to Rick’s question. Several answers bounced around in his head, every single one of them sounding like a lie. It was instinct. To lie his way out of stuff that made his heart beat just a little bit faster than normally. But he wanted to be honest, especially about this.

“Yeah,” he finally said, trying his best to ignore how Rick expression lit up with joy, “But I don’t think we should.”

The joy disappeared from Rick’s face just as fast as it had come. It hurt Daryl, more than he would have thought, but what else could he do?

This had to be what it was. Impersonal. Meeting outside of the bar was not something he could do.

Still, the hurt look in Rick eyes was just too much for Daryl, and he cursed himself for it. “And least not now.” he quickly added in a low voice, “But maybe… maybe someday.”

…

The cop pulled him to his feet only to force him down on the floor again, this time lying in the middle of the bar. He kept his weight on Daryl and his arms locked in a tight grip behind his back as he barked out for some handcuffs.

The bar looked like something out of a western movie. Post-gunfight or something. There were cops everywhere, and blue and red light shined through the window in flashes, painting the walls.

He tried to just be still, but his body was humming with adrenaline. His blood was pumping and all he wanted was to get up and run. Preferably over Merle. With his truck. Several times.

As soon as he had been placed down on the floor again, it was like Daryl had seen his whole life going down the drain. The one time he agreed to help his idiotic brother, this had to happen.

He groaned and placed his forehead on the floor and closed his eyes. He couldn’t afford a lawyer. And what good would one even do? His name alone would scare one away. His fucking name. His fucking brother.

He wondered if just being _related_ to Merle could be enough to send him behind bars. Probably was.

His head was hurting. Had he hit it or was it just this whole day? He decided he didn’t care.

“Okay, get the two others down and let’s see what we got.” One of the cops said. The one still sitting on Daryl shifted his weight, bearing his knee harder into his back. He looked over his shoulder and told him to watch it. The cop just lifted his gathered hands a little up his back, making his shoulders strain. With a curse, Daryl jerked forward again and pressed his forehead against the floor. Fucker.

“Easy, Shane, don’t break his arms.” someone said. Only it wasn’t just someone.

Daryl’s body froze. He stilled so suddenly, so when the cop loosened the grip on his hands, they didn’t ease down and still strained on his shoulders.

It couldn’t be.

“Ain’t my fault. He won’t be still.” The cop on his back retorted, pulling slightly at Daryl’s wrists so the pressure finally eased.

“Then cuff him and get moving. We need all hands.” the voice said and Daryl pressed his forehead harder against the floor, letting the familiar sound wash over him.

It was, wasn’t it?

He nearly felt like laughing. He felt like fucking laughing and crying, and maybe banging his head against the hard wooden floor, for hell, what damage could it possible do? What pain could it course him than he wasn’t already feeling growing inside?

But it wasn’t enough just hearing. He had to see, had to know.

He had to know, for really, could his life really suck _that_ much? Had he really earned _this_?

No, he didn’t believe it. It was too much.

Tenderly, carefully he lifted his head and slowly he craned his neck upward and let his eyes follow. He saw the boots first. Dark brown, sturdy-looking and well-worn. Then the pants and belt. He saw the hand holding a gun, slender fingers wrapped calmly around the handle. Up he looked and saw the policeman’s shirt. The star on the chest.

And then finally he saw him.

He no longer felt like laughing. Or banging his head.

He felt more like crawling into a dark hole and never come out.

Rick. It was Rick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The next chapters will contain police violence.  
> I know it’s a subject all too real in real life, but won’t change my story-line now. Besides, it’s a subject that needs to be spoken of more often.
> 
> Also, I think it’s safe to say that Shane won’t be a hero in this story. More the opposite. Sorry to the Shane lovers, but he’s just perfect as my “villain”.
> 
> Anyway, should anyone have any questions I’m on [tumblr](http://siff-andneverknighted.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

Once, Rick was really rough. Daryl had seen something was wrong the second their eyes met. The change from the Rick he usually met was shocking.

There was no small talk that night, just a few beers downed so fast he feared Rick would choke on one of them. Then without a word, Rick had left his chair and marched out of the bar. Confused, Daryl had hastily thrown a few crumpled bills on the bar disk before he’d followed.

He had only just closed the door behind him before hands had grabbed him and dragged him off.

He could almost feel Rick brimming with something as they walked. Anger, fury, desperation, something. His body was tense as he pulled Daryl towards the trees, hiding them both in the darkness.

Daryl didn’t dare speak. He wasn’t afraid of Rick, but he had a feeling words would only ruin what he expected would be so _fucking good_. Besides, the hands on his arms and the brisk pace Rick held made his heart beat faster. He licked his lips, tasting the anticipation of it all. And he wasn’t disappointed.

They had barely reached the trees before Rick had pushed him forward, sending him face first into the rough bark of the nearest tree. He tried to fight, body reacting instinctively, but Rick crowded him and pressed himself against his back. He growled in his ear, ordering him to be still, and Daryl felt something delicious run down his spine.

Only Rick, his mind whispered to him, only Rick.

He gasped and nodded as Rick began to tug his pants down his legs.

It was the fourth time they fucked. Rick was rough, barely preparing him before pushing in, groaning into his ear with shaking relief. Daryl shouldn’t have loved it as much as he did, being held down like that and Rick pushing into him with no rhythm. But he did. He really did.

He loved every second. He lost himself in it all and moaned as Rick grabbed his hair and turned his head, kissing him hard.

It lasted barely a second and it was the first time Rick kissed him.

The following night, Rick told him he used to be married.

…

Daryl’s father had been able to give what Merle called “a right like a sledgehammer”.

Daryl had been at wrong end of his father’s wrath plenty of times to feel it, and he agreed. Sometime sledgehammer didn’t even cover it. When his father had lost his temper and Daryl happened to be around, that right jab would knock stars before his eyes and the breath from his lungs.

It had always left him breathless and hurting. Just like now.

Rick.

Rick had not struck him with a sledgehammer, but he might as well have. Breathless and hurting. No, Rick did something far worse. He was seeing him.

Rick stared at him like he was seeing a monster instead of a man. A man he knew. A man he had fucked several times behind a bar. A man who was currently being held down on the floor and having his hands being cuffed behind his back.

A storm of emotions ran over Rick’s face as the cuffs closed around Daryl’s wrists, every feeling in the book. Surprise, confusion, realization, horror; and a few more before finally settling on betrayal. He last one slightly angered Daryl. If anyone had the right to feel betrayed it was him.

Rick’s hand holding the gun shook slightly and he slowly sheathed it. His eyes were glued to Daryl’s who could do nothing but met his gaze and fight not to show just how much this was hurting him.

The cop who had been sitting on him finally got up, but not before grabbing the back of his shirt and whispered, “Don’t even think about moving, boy.” into his ear. Resisting the urge to slam his head back against the cops, Daryl just kept quiet and glared at the bastard as he walked away and over to Rick.

Daryl jerked when another cop threw Liam down beside him. His hands were tied behind his back as well, but unlike Daryl, he didn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Keep your fucking hands off me!” he snarled and the cop lifted him by the arms before slamming him down on the floor again, knocking the air out of him before walking away laughing.

“F-Fucker…” Liam gasped and pressed his forehead against the floor. The cop joined Rick and the other one, all three sticking their head together while a few others kept their eyes on the captives. Johnny and Max also joined them on the floor, cuffed and all. Max was bleeding from a scratch on his right temple and his eyes were swimming as he looked around. Johnny looked ready to commit murder.

“Wait ‘til I get out of these cuffs, fucker, then I’m gonna cut ya dick-“

“Shut up, Johnny.” said Daryl, not understanding why he even bothered. But Johnny kept on ranting. It would probably make everything worse, but Daryl welcomed the annoyance Johnny stirred up. Anything to keep his mind of Rick and the swirl of very unwanted emotions that curled inside him.

Rick stood with the other cops, just talking. They looked around, talked, pointed at the backdoor and then one of them wrote down something on a pad. Somehow it was only then Daryl really understood where it all was going.

They were screwed. Especially him. One fucking night with Merle, and Daryl could only watch as his life went out the window. When would he ever learn that following his brother and his insane schemes would never do him any good? Every little shitty thing Merle did somehow always came back to kick Daryl in the ass, whether it was a beating from their father or the cops coming looking for his sorry-ass brother.

He had fought his whole life to stay clean. Done everything to stay away from Merle’s ideas and friends, all which lead in the same direction.

No, Daryl had done his fucking best and worked his ass off.  He had gotten the job at the garage and had managed to keep it for almost two years now.

Now that was probably lost too. That had been one of his boss’ few rules. No problems with the law. Daryl had promised it wouldn’t happen. That he had nothing to do with Merle. His boss had lifted a finger at him and promised he would be gone should just one thing happen.

Daryl had tried. Done his damn best. Always had. He’d never felt the urge to do anything other than just stay out of other people’s way. And he liked his job. It had been enough. He didn’t need all that stuff Merle somehow seemed to need. Stuff that attracted more trouble than flies to a shit. But it had always been like that. With fifteen years between them, Merle had already dirtied his hands before Daryl was even born.

It was true he had tried, had Merle, long ago. The first few years he had stayed home with their mother, taking care of Daryl. Of course Daryl couldn’t remember those years but Merle made sure to remind him of his sacrifice whenever he could. Not that he needed to. He had seen the proof. Merle had his own scars.

But he had stayed home, probably saving Daryl from day one. It wasn’t until their mother died that Merle began to wander. In and out of juvenile prison for every kind of crime a young kid could think of committing. It was like he couldn’t help it. Every time anything seemed to just work a little bit okay, Merle had to fuck it up.

He got locked up and Daryl was left with their father. Left him dealing with something way out of his league.

Just like now.

Merle was gone with Corner, run off with the stash. Daryl was left with three other men from the gang, the others having run off the second the cops busted through the doors. Except for the two lying over by the bar with a sheet thrown over them. It had been white before but now it was covered in red stains. Daryl still had no idea who it was. He wasn’t sure if he cared.

He didn’t think they deserved to die, but they had pulled their guns despite the cops warning. Stupid idiots should have seen it coming.

Beside him, Johnny was still letting out shit, but the cops were ignoring him. They stood with their heads stuck together, while two of them were keeping an eye on Daryl and the others. One of them, a young guy, was clearly getting annoyed with Johnny. His hands tighten around his riffle and he glared at Johnny. Daryl didn’t like the look of that and told Johnny to shut up.

“Shut your asshole, Dixon!” spat Johnny. Daryl ignored him. The cops didn’t however.

The one who had cuffed Daryl turned at once and walked over to them, leaving the other cops confused.

“Dixon?” he asked, planting himself before them with his hands on his hips, the very picture of a man taking no shit. When he said Daryl’s name, dread crept up on him. Crap. “Which one of you is Dixon?”

To their credit, none of them said anything, not even Johnny. They stayed quiet until the cop curled his lip up in annoyance. “Listen here, fellas,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “You are all in deep shit here. Don’t make it worse for yourself. Who of you is Dixon?”

It ended up being Liam who gave him away. One glance in his direction and the cop smiled triumphantly, stalking over to him with heavy steps and grabbed him by his bound hands and pulled him roughly to his feet.

Daryl barely had time to get his feet beneath him. Johnny cursed down on the floor as he was pulled away from them and over to the other cops, where he was planted in a chair that somehow had survived the whole ordeal.

Daryl couldn’t help but struggle, wanting to get the cops hands off him but the bastard had an iron grip. The other cops watched, keeping a close eye on the gang members but none of them did nothing.

The cop stood before him, smirking all smug as he looked down on Daryl.

“So you are Dixon, huh?”

“That’s not Merle Dixon, Shane,” said the young cop with the riffle, gesturing at Daryl, “He isn’t nearly ugly enough.”

“Shut your damn mouth!” Daryl hissed, nearly jumping out of the chair had the cop – Shane, or whatever – not grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back.

“Calm down,” said Shane, and fuck, what kind of name was that anyway, “If you aren’t Merle Dixon, then who are you?”

“Daryl Dixon.” said the young cop, “His younger brother.”

“Thank you, Gareth.” snapped Shane over his shoulder. He looked at Daryl with clear disappointment. Figured. Could he ever be anything else?

Shane leaned down, bringing their faces closer together, and Daryl leaned as far back in his chair as he could.

“So, Daryl,” said Shane and smiled, “Where is your brother?”

Daryl spat him in the face.

Shane reeled back as the glob of spit hit him in the eye, cursing as he wiped at his face.

“Fuck you.” Daryl said, enjoying the look on the cop’s face as he turned back to Daryl, fury in his eyes. Daryl was sure he would have punched him, had it not been for Rick.

He’d nearly forgotten Rick was there. Nearly. Not really. Not at all actually.

Rick jumped forward and grabbed Shane by the arm before he could draw it back. “Shane, no!”

The sound of his voice jolted through Daryl, making it all more real. He was really there, Rick. Rick Grimes, according to the name tag on his uniform shirt. Rick Grimes, standing before him in a goddamn uniform. A _cop_ uniform. Rick was a fucking cop.

It had to be a joke. Some fucking cosmic joke. Or karma. Wasn’t that that people said the world did? Gave you back for all the shit you had done. Karma and all that. Was this payment for all the things he had done in his life? Or hadn’t done?

For all the times he hadn’t stopped Merle getting in a fight, or selling some of his stuff to some wide-eyed kid. For all the times his brother came home, boasting about what he and his gang had done that night and Daryl never said nothing. Not to anyone.

And now he paid for it. By losing the one thing he might actually care about. Fucking karma. Fucking Merle. And fucking Rick for being a _fucking cop_.

It didn’t help that Rick kept talking to Shane. Calming words that slowly made their way into Daryl’s frozen brain.

“We take him down to the station and then you can question him, understood?”

Despite it all, all the feelings and thoughts running through is head, Daryl was impressed by Rick’s authority over the other man. Shane was glaring at Daryl, his body tense and Rick’s hand sprawled out over his chest, pressing him firmly away from Daryl. He looked ready for a fight but he backed down. Looking shortly at Rick, he nodded and took a step back, giving Daryl a fierce look that promised everything kind of hell.

Rick saw this, “Shane…” he warned and the bastard finally dropped his gaze.

Rick was the boss then. Great. Hopefully that didn’t mean he would be the one to question Daryl. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone with Rick at the moment.

What the hell would he say anyway? What would Rick say?

He only had himself to blame. Why couldn’t he just have said no to Merle? Stayed home for the night and drink some beer before heading off to bed early and think of the meeting he would have with Rick the next night.

A meeting what would never happen now. No more meetings ever would happen now. It was over. Done.

The thought slowly settled in Daryl.

It was over. Their anonymity was blown out the window and they finally saw each other clearly. Rick was a cop, and Daryl a fucking lowlife with a dealer for a brother.

Whatever they seemed to have, it was over now. 

Only comfort seemed to be that no one else knew about them. Not Merle’s gang, not the other cops – or they would have said something by now – not anyone. If they played their cards right, they could get out of this without anyone knowing. If Merle’s boys found out he had been screwing a man, he was dead meat. It they found out said man was a cop…

Daryl would keep his mouth shut and he hoped Rick would too. He had a hard time imagining Rick wanting to speak to him at all after this. The look on the man face certainly spoke for it.

Fine. They just had to be smart, and Daryl would be out of Rick’s hair before the night was over.

“Okay, let’s get this place cleared out. Gather them up and get them out of here.”

Right. First thing first.

Daryl let out a snarl as Shane dragged him out of the chair and pulled him outside, not caring that he nearly fell over the broken remains of a table. The darkness outside was pierced by the light from the police cars. Blue and red flashing before his eyes as Shane led him across the parking lot and over to the nearest car. Unceremonious he was pushed into the backseat and the door slammed shut behind him.

As he expected, Shane took the driver’s seat and looked at Daryl in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t worry, Dixon, I’ll get you talking.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Said Daryl and tried to lean back, struggling since his hands were still cuffed behind his back.

In the mirror, Shane just smirked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: I only need to write two chapters and this baby is done. Bad nesw: No idea when I´ll do it, so...
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading^^


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. I'm a lazy bastard and I apologize for the wait. I was also in a hurry when I edited this, so there might be more than a few mistakes.
> 
> Again, thank you for all the kudos and comments^^ You make my day each time!

He had no idea what time it was. He answered the same question again and again. And with the same answer again, again and again. “I don’t know where he is.” but the cop didn’t believe him.

“I can keep this up all night, Dixon. Tell me where your brother is.” the cop said, standing behind the chair he had earlier sat in. He leaned heavily on it with his hands, and despite his words, Daryl saw how tired he was.

“No fuckin’ idea.” Daryl said, not longer bothering to hide his own exhaustion. He was tired and hungry, and his shoulders hurt after having his hands cuffed behind his back so long. Now they were cuffed to the table before him. A short chain bound his hands to an iron ring beneath it, just long enough for him to place them on the cold surface or in his lap. He had fidget with them and now paid for it with sore skin on his wrists.

The cop didn’t care about this at all. He hadn’t allowed Daryl a moments rest since they brought him into the interrogation room. It was nothing special. Small and grey, one table and two chairs, and that mirror on the wall Daryl knew someone was looking through.

For hours they had been in there. The cop – Shane Walsh as he had learned his full name was – refused to go without knowing about Merle, and no matter how many times Daryl told him he knew nothing, the bastard just kept trying.

“You expect me to believe that?” Walsh asked, pushing himself out of his chair and began once again to walk around the room, around Daryl like some jungle cat stalking its prey or something. Probably meant to scare, but after a dozen or so times, it was just annoying. “You were there, Dixon, helping your brother out. But as far as I know you have never been involved before. Your name is clean.”

Walsh said it like he didn’t believe it, like they just hadn’t found whatever Daryl had done in the past. No way could a guy like Daryl have a clean slate. Well, it wasn’t clean anymore. It pissed Daryl off, but he said nothing.

“But maybe that’s why you were there. To get into it.” Walsh stopped just behind him, and Daryl had to concentrate on not flinching or squirm in his seat. He didn’t like having the man behind him like that. Their eyes met in the mirror in front of him. Walsh looked as ragged as he did. Well, maybe not as much. But he did look tired and exhausted. His hair was in disarray after he had run his hand through it several times. The three top buttons of his shirt was open and showed the wife-beater beneath.

“You first time and then the gang would welcome you with open arms. Turning it into a business between brothers, am I right?” Walsh continued his pacing and Daryl breathed in relief. He stopped again before Daryl, and ran his hand through his hair yet again.

Daryl wondered what time it was.

“Well?”

Daryl shook his head, “No. Don’t want nothin’ ta do with that shit.”

Walsh laughed. “Don’t fuck with me, Dixon. You were there. Don’t expect me to believe this was just a one time thing.”

Daryl shrugged, “I’m telling the truth, fuck if I care ‘bout you.”

Walsh smacked his hand down on the table, smile gone. “Where is he, Dixon?”

Again and again, the same question.

Walsh liked to talk. Spin out theories and try to get answers that didn’t exist out of Daryl. Normally it would have worked. All the shit he said about Merle, about Daryl, their family, it would all normally make him snap and give back.

But he was just too tired. Tired of it all.

His body felt tired, and his mind felt worn. He had a weird feeling of having been kicked while he was already down.

Merle was gone, and so was Daryl’s life out of the police radar. If he was lucky, he would just lose his job and spend the rest of his life trying to shake off whispers and suspicious looks from the people in the town. If he was unlucky, he was going to jail.

He almost didn’t care. None of it mattered. He wondered if he had always been heading this way, even unknowingly. He had tried, _really_ tried not to, but cultural heritage or whatever it was called. He had the legacy of his father and brother smeared all over him. It had probably just been a matter of time.

And now here he was. In a police station, getting questioned by some stubborn fuck.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it all.

No the worst was still that once in a while, the door to the room would open and Rick would walk in with a glass of water or a little note to Walsh. He would always look at Walsh when he entered with a careful mask of indifference on his face, but then he would glance at Daryl, like he just couldn’t help it, and something would flash over his face. Daryl had no idea what it was, but it made Rick set his jaw and tear his eyes off Daryl.

Five times Rick had entered the room and left it again without saying a word to Daryl, and five times Daryl felt like Rick might as well had punched him in the gut.

The one good thing in his fucked up life.

A fucking cop.

Lost in thoughts, Daryl barely noticed that Walsh apparently had given up for the night. He was rubbing his face and calling out towards the door where two other cops appeared after a few minutes.

“Take him to the cells.” Walsh said and gestured at Daryl.

“Whoa, what the hell?” said Daryl and tried to jump out of his chair, only to be stopped by the chain. “You can’t keep me here?”    

Walsh grinned, “Actually, we can without reason for forty-eight hours. And believe me, we have more than reason.”

Daryl gave him his best glare which only seemed to amuse Walsh. He gestured to the cops and Daryl felt his body tense as they went over to him.

They freed him from the table and then lead him out of the room and down a hall. After hours sitting in the chair, his legs felt stiff and he stumbled along until they reached the door by the end. On the other side were the holding cells. There were three, all made out of thick walls with the only opening being the cell doors. Daryl was led into the one furthest from the door.

As he passed the first two, he saw Johnny and Liam in the first one, both sleeping in each their bed despite the bright lights being turned on in the room. He had no idea where Max was.

Inside the cell, they unlocked the cuffs from Daryl’s wrists and then left, leaving the lights on. Daryl was too tired to even care and all but collapse on the shaky bed, burying his head in the paper-thin pillow. He tried not to think of this as his first of many nights in a cell, Walsh’s words echoing in his head, and instead kept his thoughts on anything else. Anything that wouldn’t make him think of Merle, or the police or this whole fucking day.

Even that was a struggle, but when he finally managed it, he ended up thinking of something even worse.

…

He didn’t sleep well that night. Far fucking from. Mostly because of the nightmare. A new one, never had it before.

He was back at Jake’s, hiding behind the table as yelling and gunfire filled the air. He looked over the edge of the table and saw Merle. The bastard was standing right in the middle of it all, bullets whistling past him and through him. He seemed totally oblivious to what was happening, just staring emptily into the air. Blood ran from the wounds and down his body where it gathered at his feet.

Daryl stared in horror, unable to do anything as his brother was ripped apart. The bullets blew holes through his chest and pieces of his arms and legs. One hit him through the head, blowing away his right eye.

When Merle finally noticed Daryl, he smiled and reached out his hand. He tried to say something, but a bullet had blown a chunk off the left side of his throat, and the words came out as a splutter of blood. It didn’t stop Merle from walking though. He began to move forward. Slow, staggering steps towards Daryl who was frozen to the spot.

He stopped just beside Daryl. The blood ran more freely and soon a puddle was spreading around his boots. Daryl watched in horror as Merle began to sink into the blood. His boots disappeared and his legs slowly followed. Merle didn’t seem to care as he reached out with a bloody hand towards Daryl and spluttered something into his face.

He grabbed the hand and held on.

The skin was slippery beneath his fingers, thanks to the blood, and no matter how hard he pulled, he couldn’t stop Merle from sinking. He was in to the middle of his chest now, sinking fast. Soon the blood covered his shoulders.

Daryl yelled and pulled but Merle just sank further into his own blood. It reached his chin and then his face disappeared. Daryl nearly lost his grip as the elbow sank but managed to hold on. The sinking slowed as the blood reached the wrist, and Daryl realized he couldn’t hold on or he would sink too.

But then he couldn’t let go. The blood had glued them together, and no matter how much he struggled or clawed at their joined hands, Merle slowly pulled him under. His hand, forearm, elbow. He yelled and begged Merle to let go but it didn’t help. His arm was pulled under and he could smell the blood as his face was forced closer to the red liquid.

His nose was seconds away from touching the blood when someone called his name.

_Daryl_.

And he jolted awake.

For a moment he didn’t remember where he was, the darkness made it hard for him to make out the bars, but when he finally did, he remembered it all.

It was Rick who had woken him.

Breathing hard and still feeling the blood on his skin Daryl faced the wall, trying to get his breathing under control. His hands shook as he rubbed his eye, trying to get the image of a shot Merle out of his head. Always Merle.

“Daryl?”

Rick was still there, on the other side of the bars. Daryl rolled over and looked at him and saw he was still in his uniform. Something dark gathered in his stomach and he looked at the ceiling instead.

“Daryl, please.” Rick spoke in a hushed tone and Daryl remembered the two other men sleeping just two cells down. He wondered what time it was. “We need to talk.”

He didn’t answer. They had nothing to talk about. It was over. _They_ were over. Surely Rick must have seen that already.

“Daryl!” or maybe not.

Slowly he looked up, not meeting Rick’s eyes. Instead he looked at his chest, seeing the shiny star pinned to his shirt. Hell. That star might as well have been the wall of China.

“What?”

“Please, I need to speak with you. I need to understand this.”

“Ain’t no ‘terrogation room. Not sayin’ anythin’ without my lawyer.” Daryl muttered and heard Rick sigh.

“Don’t do that, not now.

“Do what?”

Rick gestured vaguely with his hand, “Act like you think I don’t care about you.”

“You don’t care.” said Daryl and looked down. Why wouldn’t he just leave?

“I do.” Rick said softly and it was just too much for Daryl. The honest tone in Rick’s voice, the way he leaned closer to the bars as he said them. The look in his eyes. It was all too much. And he couldn’t believe a word of it.

Daryl stood up and walked over to Rick, so close his face stuck out through the bars. Rick clearly hadn’t expected that and took a step back, like Daryl was a dog biting at him.“Why do you care, huh? Afraid I might spill the secret and ruin your fuckin’ job?” he nearly snarled out the words but kept his voice low. He leaned closer and curled his fingers around the cold bars. His heart hammered in his chest. He hadn’t been this close to Rick since before he was arrested, not since last time.

“Daryl, stop. This isn’t you.” said Rick. His eyes jumped around, taking in Daryl’s expression which he kept in an angry snarl.

“The fuck do you know?” asked Daryl, “You don’t even know me.”

Rick opened his mouth, clearly ready with some retort but then closed it again. His eyes left Daryl’s face and instead ran over his body, but not in the way Daryl was used to from him. There was no heat or desire in those eyes anymore. He was taking in Daryl. The real Daryl. The one he was never meant to see.

“Like what you see?”

Rick’s eyes snapped back to his face. “Don’t act like one of them. You’re not one of them.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do!”

“Hell you do.” snapped Daryl.

“I do, Daryl!” said Rick and stepped closer, “And this _isn’t_ you.”

It felt like a challenge. Rick’s eyes were intensely blue and his look even more so. He tried to hold it. Rick didn’t know shit, not about anything and not about him.  Daryl had made sure of that.

They were both silent at they stared at each other. Rick refused to back down and finally, Daryl had to. He let his eyes fall but didn’t move from the bars. They were standing so close; Daryl could nearly feel Rick’s breath against his face.

_This isn’t you_

He sounded so sure. His eyes were so steady and intense, as if he tried to will Daryl into believing him. Tried to _will_ the world right. It gave Daryl a warm feeling in his chest that died as soon as he remembered his head was sticking out between bars.

Rick was wrong. What more proof did he need?

“Just because you fucked me doesn’t mean you know me.” Daryl said. Rick flinched and his words must have hit some kind of truth, for Rick’s face closed off in a way only a cop could do. Forcing down anger and trying to remain calm even though he clearly only wished to snap back a Daryl.

Taking a deep breath, Rick looked down the hall but it was silent. The whole station was silent. The door leading to the offices was open but there was only darkness on the other side. Except for the two gang members sleeping in the furthest cell, they were alone. Still, Rick leaned closer, bracing himself against the bar with one hand and stood before Daryl like a shield. With the other he rubbed at his eyes. Daryl thought he looked exhausted. For a second, he nearly reached out.

But then the part of his brain sounding a lot like Merle yelled at him to be a fucking man, so instead he lets both his hands drop and pulled his head back from the bars with a sigh.

“What do you want, Rick?” it felt so weird saying his name now. The fucking star on Rick’s chest shined even in the darkness, taunting him more than that fucking piece of paper with the number ever did. And he had even called Rick, less than, what? Ten hours ago? At least according to Rick’s watch. Expensive looking thing.

They were supposed to meet.

“I don’t know. I just needed to talk with you.” said Rick and ran his hand over his face, “After all this, I just need to know why… why… why are you laughing?”

It wasn’t really laughing, more a dark chuckle, but Daryl still waved a hand in apology. “Sorry, sorry. Guess we’re not meetin’ tonight then?”

Rick stared at him, clearly baffled, but then he seemed to realize what Daryl was talking about and his face split in a true and honest grin. Daryl couldn’t help but smile as Rick stepped back from the bars and looked up, spreading his hands slightly, as if asking the sky why this was happening to him.

But he was smiling, and Daryl hated himself for feeling warmth spreading in his chest.

“No, I guess not,” Rick chuckled and shook his head slightly. He looked at the bars and tapped one with a finger while looking way too thoughtful. “These might be a problem.”

Daryl snorted, “Tell me about it. Gonna need a saw or somethin’.”

“Not going to work,” said Rick and tapped the bar again, “It would be easier to drive a car through the wall.”

“Really?” asked Daryl and glanced at the wall behind him. “Thought they only did that in movies?”

“No, no, it actually works, but the car needs to be pampered a little or the hood will crumble like a- you know, I’m not sure I should tell you this.”

“What, you think I’m gonna drive through the wall? Like I got my truck down my pants.”

“Oh, you have something better than a truck.” Rick laughed, a warm, carefree sound, but then seemed to realize what he’d said out loud. The smile dropped and the blush spreading from his cheeks ran all the way down his throat. He almost looked like Daryl had slapped him and the seriousness of the situation came crashing down over them again.

“I’m sorry.” muttered Rick.

…

“I’m sorry.” muttered Rick; his eyes firmly set on Daryl’s bottom lip.

Daryl licked it carefully and tasted blood.

“It’s fine.” he said but Rick just kept staring like he had never seen blood before.

“No, its… not.” he reached up slowly and gently touched Daryl’s cheek. He flinched but Rick didn’t seem to notice as he slowly ran his thumb over Daryl’s bleeding lip, smearing out the blood.

Finally his eyes met Daryl’s and he saw the hurt and guilt in them.

Geez, over a small bite?

Daryl huffed out a small laugh before he grabbed Rick’s shirt and pulled him back into the kiss. Rick didn’t resist but he didn’t surge up into it like he had before. His hand was still on Daryl’s cheek, but as he licked at Rick’s lip, he felt the finger crawl to the back of his head and grab his hair.

He moaned and it finally snapped Rick out the haze. The other man growled deep in his throat and soon Daryl’s lip were bleeding freely and he didn’t get another apology.

Instead he got Rick on his knees before him, and came harder than he ever had before.

…

Daryl didn’t sleep the rest of the night. After a few more awkward moments, Rick had left, finally admitting defeat. Daryl didn’t like watching him go, but there was no point in wishing he stayed. The game was lost. Just proved to him he never should have played to begin with.

He had returned to his bed but laid awake the last few hours before the police station woke up too. Deputies and rookies came in carrying cups of coffee and pink paper boxes painted with donuts. Daryl and the two other prisoners were given breakfast and some low-priced coffee. Not that it mattered to Daryl. Food was food. Johnny however, complained the best he had learned and even Liam had to tell him to shut up.

After chewing the last bite of his sandwich and washed it down with the coffee, Daryl saw Walsh. The door separating the cells from the rest of the station was open, and he could see Walsh stand in the middle of the hall, looking freshly cleaned and shaved, drinking from a cup and talking to some other officer.

As if he knew Daryl was looking, Walsh turned his head and their eyes met. Daryl dropped his gaze but not before seeing the smirk on the cops face.

He ran a through his hair, feeling the grease in it. He then touch his cheek and felt the stubbles rub at his palm. His clothes were dirty and stained – he tried not to think of what – and he noticed motor-oil along the rims of his nails.

And he smelled. Sweat and dirt all in one. And in the hall Walsh stood clean as a fiddle. Fucking great. He made a silent bet with himself that he would defiantly hear “dirty redneck” at least three times today.

Normally he didn’t really care. He had very little course to stay clean in his life. His work was messy and he liked it that way, but seeing the dirty on his hands and the stains on his boots, he wished he could clean up. Just a little. He didn’t want to sit across the cop and look like some backyard trash. It was worse enough that the bastard was thinking it; Daryl didn’t want to give him proof.

His holding cell had a small toilet and an even smaller sink, but the water pressure was a joke and it would take him all day to get the oil alone off his hands. He sighed and sat back against the wall. He pulled his leg up, resting his arm on his knee.

He tried to imagine what this day had in store. Locked up like an animal in a cage, just waiting. The cops would probably want him to do tricks. Tell them where Merle was, what had happened last night. Maybe even jump through hoops.

Only, he didn’t know. He didn’t have the faintest clue where Merle might be. The bastard was as unpredictable as he was predictable. He always did the same thing but never the same way. He could be halfway to Canada, but Daryl knew he hated that country so that wasn’t the case.

He had probably left the state. If he had driven all night he had defiantly crossed the line, maybe even two. Gone and gone. Leaving behind the gang and Daryl to try and fix it all.

“Hey, ass-wipe! I want my phone call!” yelled Johnny suddenly, making Daryl look up and out through the bars. He had yelled at some cop standing in the hallway, a boy looking like he was fresh out of high-school. He sprinted down the hall to the offices and soon returned with Rick. Daryl turned his back as soon as he saw the man.

He heard Rick talk with Johnny in the other end of the room, but couldn’t see them. He heard the sound of metal doors opening and soon saw Johnny walk cuffed in front of Rick who had a firm grip on his shoulder.

Before they went down the hall, Johnny looked over his shoulder and straight at Daryl.

If eyes ever promised murder, it was those, and Daryl was suddenly afraid of Rick’s safety. But Johnny was cuffed, and the station was full of police officers. Not even Johnny was idiot enough to pull a stunt here. Was he? Daryl hoped he wasn’t.

Rick led Johnny away, and Daryl wondered why he wanted his call now and not last night. Daryl hadn’t asked for his. He had no one to call. But apparently Walsh had had a different opinion, since he had offered him several times last night. Like he would ever call Merle.

He chewed on his finger. If he could, would he call Merle?

It was a weird feeling to have. Wanting to have his brother with him and still wishing he would just stay the hell away.

While it was always Merle who got him into trouble, he had also been his lifeline. A Dixon didn’t whine or cry, but Daryl had never needed to. Merle had always known when shit got real, when Daryl really needed his help. Daryl just had to wait and Merle would come. There had never been need for a call.

He didn’t like to admit it, but he felt weak without Merle. His brother was just so much _more_ than him. Smarter, stronger, better at fighting and doing… well, anything. Daryl had no idea how to handle this. He had stayed out of the police’s way all his life. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to handle this or where it all was going. Where _he_ was going.

Merle would know.

He gave a small smile. Hell, Merle would just tell him to keep his mouth shut and wait for him.

“No time for laughing, Dixon.“ said Walsh, suddenly standing by the bars of his cell with that annoying grin. “It’s time for talking. Get your ass over here.”

Reluctantly, Daryl got up from the bed and walked over to the bars where his hands were cuffed. The door was opened and Walsh grabbed him roughly by the arm, and pulled him along.

Daryl gritted his teeth together, not sure he would be able to keep his mouth shut.

But he was sure of one thing; waiting was a waste of time. Merle wasn’t coming for him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is. This one has been a pain in the ass, and the next is even worse. Be prepared for a longer wait (yes, believe it or not, it’s possible) mostly because work is taking my time.  
> There also may be some mistakes in this. Its late and I'm tired. I apologize for that.
> 
> As always, thank you sooo much for kudos and comments. It brightens my day!
> 
> Also, this chapter is where I get… mean to Daryl. Sorry buddy.

He felt like he was riding a sugar rush, or maybe seventeen cups of coffee. His whole body was twitching and he needed something to do with his hands. He settled for a napkin and twisted it between his fingers until it crumpled.

What the hell was he doing, coming back here?

Rosie’s was quiet tonight, being a Monday. A few people was scattered around the tables and an old timer sat by the other end of the bar. Daryl had on purpose chosen his seat as far away as possible from the man, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

He must have failed somehow, since Rosie recognized him the second he sat down.

She was a small woman, not very tall and thin like a twig. She was probably in her late twenties, and very pretty. Long dark hair flowed down her back and framed her face that always seemed to have a smile on. Not that Daryl really knew. This was only his second time at her bar.

But despite her small figure and kind face, Daryl had respect for her. His first night had been over a week ago but he still remembered how she had reacted when two men suddenly began butting heads.

The small bird had slammed her hand down on the bar and yelled at the men, her voice cutting through the air like whip. Daryl had nearly dropped his beer and several other tough-looking men had suddenly looked like frightened schoolboys. The small woman had turned from a pretty girl to a snarling tiger in less than ten seconds. The two men hadn’t backed down, but none of the other guests wanted to get on her bad side, so hands joined to get the fighters out of the bar before even a glass could shatter.

As soon as the peace had settled over the room again, Rosie was back to smiling and handing over drinks. Daryl really respected that tiny woman, but he wasn’t sure if he liked that she apparently remembered what beer he preferred to drink.

He had barely sat down before the bottle was placed before him. So much for staying low.

But Daryl wasn’t there for Rosie or the beer. He was there for…

He was losing his mind, he was, and acting like some horny teenager. It was just stupid, all of it.

He had returned to Rosie’s hoping that… hoping…

Damn, he was pathetic. A fucking one night stand – no, not even that. It was nothing. It had barely been a _stand_. Just two drunken men getting some relief behind a bar. Still, it had been good. Painfully good and he couldn’t deny that he wanted more.

Didn’t change the fact that he was pathetic, though. Returning to the same bar, just a week later in hope of seeing him again and… what? Ask for another go? There wasn’t even a chance that guy would show up again. It had taken him days to work up his courage to do something that bordered on crazy. Daryl didn’t even have a name. He couldn’t ask Rosie about him or if she knew if he would come back.

He drank his beer, avoiding small talk and glances from the few people that drifted in through the door. And just waited.

The clock behind the bar moved slowly but it did move, and as it struck eleven, Daryl had to admit that the guy probably wasn’t showing. He hadn’t expected to on a Monday, but still. Hope was all a man had.

Time went on and so did his patience. He felt the disappointment gather in his mouth and tried to wash it down with his lukewarm beer. The guy didn’t show. It was like admitting defeat. And facing how ridicules he had acted.

With the bitter taste still in his mouth, Daryl paid for his last drink and went home.

Alone in his bed, he lay awake and thought about how pathetic he was. It was so unlike him. What had happened the other night had, well, not _changed_ him. Not that much. But it had opened up for some thoughts he’d never had before.

It was a whole new thing, thinking about stuff like that.

Thinking about the man and how his breath had run across Daryl’s lips, how his fingers had tugged at his hair. How he had gasped as he came.

Biting the back of his hand so he wouldn’t make a sound, Daryl tried to help himself. Didn’t feel the same, didn’t really feel right. Didn’t feel at all. Afterwards he felt low and silly, and it was like his whole head heated from embarrassment.

The next night he returned to Rosie’s and got his beer. The guy never showed and he ended up alone in his bed, face burning as he tried again with no luck. Just didn’t feel.

Work kept him busy for a few days and he didn’t return until Friday, no longer caring about sticking out. He sat down on his usual chair and Rosie handed him his beer, and he waited, mood dull and disappointment building every time the door opened and he didn’t recognized the face.

Finally it became too much and he got up from his seat. Rosie waved goodbye and he tenderly returned it as he headed for the door. It opened and nearly hit him in the face. He grabbed the frame, ready to yell at the bastard, but didn’t even get a word out.

It was him.

Daryl stood like a gaping fish with open mouth, just staring at him. The guy was just as surprised he was, but then he smiled. A happy yet really dirty smile.

“Already leaving?” he asked.

…

He had no sense of time that day. He spent hours in the interrogation room, either with Walsh or his own reflection in that damned trick mirror.

They went in circles. Walsh used every trick in the book to try at get Daryl to talk, but he got nothing. Daryl had nothing to tell. But no matter how many times he said it, Walsh didn’t believe him.

The only bright side was the food. Some greasy burger with everything and a coke was placed before him, the biggest meal Daryl had ever seen. He hadn’t asked for it and suspected Rick might have something to do with it. It tasted amazing. With the payment Daryl got from the garage, he could just only keep going. He paid his part of the bills, refusing to borrow anything from Merle, and kept himself clothed and fed with the few coins he had left.

Dinner was usually the cheapest he could find at the convenient store. Cast in plastic and easily heated in the micro oven. Tasteless, but he didn’t care. It was fuel. It kept him going and that was enough.

More trouble it was keeping his truck going. All the money he could spare went there, keeping her running. Working at the garage helped him in more ways than just paying for electricity. Especially since he tended to take better care of his truck than himself.

That pretty much meant he had never eaten something like this. It wasn’t some McDonald’s menu; this was from the diner down the road from the station. Daryl had never eaten there.

Not seeing why he shouldn’t enjoy it, Daryl ate it all, risking a terrible stomachache. It was a really good burger.

And the only bright side to that whole day. After that it was like all hell broke loose.

Later he would think of it as his last meal. His humor had always been a little dark.

…

Rick led him back to the cell that night.

Johnny and Liam were gone, their cell stood empty along with the one in the middle. Daryl wondered if there even was any other crime in the town at the moment.

Rick locked the door after him but didn’t leave at once. Daryl just tried to ignore him. He was tired. Even though the day had been pretty uneventful, the meal still being the highlight, he still felt like he had been working nonstop for days.

He hated being locked up, and he hated even more he could do nothing about it. Walsh still didn’t believe him. His threats had lost their power.

They had assigned some lawyer to him. A small man named L. Michaels, who looked like he had spent his whole life getting his allowance robbed. He spoke in a husky voice and constantly wiped his enormous glasses with a handkerchief, and jumped in his seat every time Daryl looked at him. Daryl had thought him useless, but he came through somehow and showed his worth.

He advice Daryl to let him speak, and it turned out he took on Walsh quite well.

It didn’t take long before Daryl realized he wasn’t as deep in as he had thought. Even though he had been at bar when it all happened, he hadn’t actually done anything. He hadn’t fired a gun, and the one he had held hadn’t been found. Merle had probably taken it.

None of his fingerprints were on the crates with the guns or the few bags of white powder they managed to find. He had a clean past and while he didn’t give them the answers they want to hear, he’s still cooperating as well as he could.

So no matter how much Walsh talked about life in prison, Daryl doubted he would end up like that. The little lawyer-man assured him of the same. And at some point, they have to let him go. Question was only what would happen afterwards.

He sat down on his bed and leaned back against the wall. Only then did he realize Rick was still there. Daryl looked at him, giving him a silent _go ahead_ with a short nod. Rick tapped his fingers against the bars nervously.

“I don’t have the night shift.” He said,

It took a few moments before Daryl understood. “So?”

“So I won’t be here tonight.”

Yeah, he got that part. “So?”

Rick sighed. “Nothing. Just… goodnight.” He waved at Daryl and turned away, leaving through the door that closed behind him. Daryl was alone. Alone with himself and his thoughts. Neither was really good company at the moment.

What the fuck had Rick been about? So what if he didn’t have the nightshift? What had he expected?

That their little agreement was still standing and Daryl would let him fuck him up against the wall? Or the bars perhaps? Not fucking likely. For some weird reason, being arrested and locked up didn’t exactly turn Daryl on. And if that wasn’t enough to go limp, the star on Rick’s chest did the job just perfectly.

Despite the late hours, Daryl had trouble falling asleep. When the light in the holding cells finally turned off, Daryl laid awake on his bed. He wondered what he should do when they let him go. He wasn’t green enough to think that this was it, that the cops would just give up and set him free. Michaels had assured him that the case was in his favor, and even if he ended in court, he would most likely get a suspended sentence lasting a few years.

Daryl had his own theory. The cops needed him, even though he didn’t humor them by telling anything. He guessed they would let him go, and then follow him, hoping he would lead them directly to Merle. Good luck to them.

Michaels had told him to sit tight and Daryl was going to follow the man’s advice.

He would probably be warned about leaving the county, the town even. Didn’t matter, not like he had other places to go. If he was honest, Daryl just wanted to go home and back to work. To put all this and Rick behind him.

He could live with a suspended sentence. He could live, just he got the hell out of here.

He tugged the thin blanket he had been given tighter around his shoulder, and rolled over so he faced the wall. He was so tired.

It took a while, but finally he fell asleep.

…

Rick pulled the bottle from his hand, “How can you drink this?” he asked and looked at the beer like it was a personal offend to him. “It’s an insult to good alcohol.”

Daryl snorted and pointed at the rum and coke Rick had nursed half the night. “And what is that?”

Rick handed him back the beer and lifted his glass with a snug smile, “A guilty pleasure.” He emptied it and then ordered a beer from Rosie. “You should try it, though.”

“Hell no,” huffed Daryl and took a big swig from his beer. Rick grinned dangerously.

“I bet I can make you drink it.” he said, voice suddenly low and heated. His bright eyes shinned as he tilted his head forward, letting the meaning behind his words become more than clear.

Daryl ducked his head a little and wetted his lips. The flirting stuff was still new to him. But tonight he felt brave.

He took a deep breath and met Rick’s eyes.

“Prove it.” he said.

…

He was ripped out of sleep. And out of the bed.

Something grabbed him by the ankles and he was pulled forcefully off the bed, and crashed to the floor before he was even fully awake. He didn’t manage to break the fall and slammed his face hard against the floor.

His chin and nose throbbed and for a second, he thought he had gone blind. He hadn’t, the cell was just dark and the light was still out. And he wasn’t alone.

He could hear them. At least two, chuckling behind him as he tried to crawl away. Someone grabbed his ankles again and pulled, his hands skirted across the smooth floor as he was dragged backwards. He squirmed and tried to turn around, to see what the hell was going on, but they lifted his legs high, and his face smacked against the floor again as his arms were kicked out from beneath him.

He hissed in pain and kicked out forcefully, hitting one of them. His attacker cursed and dropped him. He landed heavilyand grunted as his arm was squashed beneath him. Then the kicks came.

Aimed at his back, his stomach and legs. It was sad that he knew they used the flat top of their boots and not the tip, otherwise ribs would have broken. They wanted to bruise not break.

He curled up, protecting his head out of habit, but they didn’t aim for it. He couldn’t see anything; he could only feel the pain as each kick landed and hear his own grunts of pain. Finally they stopped.

Over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and his own choked breathing, he heard them. It sounded like there were three. Standing around him, breathing hard as they watched him curl up like some beaten dog. Despite the pain, Daryl became furious at that thought and moved as fast as he could.

He got his feet under him and jumped forward, catching one of them around the middle. He pushed him backwards and they crashed against the bed, which protested loudly at the treatment. Daryl jumped back and turned, trying to find the exit, to get out of the cell. He couldn’t find it.

Instead he was grabbed by two pairs of hands that pulled him back and pressed him against the wall. They held him up as the guy he had downed got up from the bed with a snarl, and punched him in the stomach. He doubled over, breath stolen from him and was yanked up again.

A few more hits were aimed at his stomach and Daryl didn’t get a chance to breathe at all. He gasped and panicked when he couldn’t suck even the smallest air through his lips. It was like his lungs had crumbled.

The hands released him and he fell to the floor where he curled up, hearing his father yell at him, calling him a bitch, a coward and a fucking faggot.

He sobbed, breathless and hurting everywhere.

One of them kicked him in the back and he gave a choked yell. He tried to roll away but was stopped by a boot pressing down on him. He squirmed but the heel pressed into his lower back and he grunted in pain.

“Enough.” said a gruff voice and the boot were gone. He gasped for air, fighting tears and a whine building in his throat. He clenched his eyes shut and ducked his head down between his arms, praying it really was enough. That they would stop. 

He should have remembered he’d given up on praying a long time ago.

One of the men knelt beside him, his boots scraping the floor as he leaned closer. Daryl could feel him. He radiated heat. A sharp flash of panic shot through him and Daryl tried to crawl away from the man.

Finger curled into his hair and his head was wrenched back, “Be still, your fucker.” a hoarse voice hissed in his ear, making him tremble. The weight shifted and he felt how the man moved and then settle heavilyon his back, keeping his body still with his weight and the grip in Daryl’s hair. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw the two other men stand on each side of him. He was trapped.

The fingers pulled sharply, demanding his attention, and Daryl hissed.

“Shut up!” warm breath danced across his cheek. “You listen to me, you dumb piece of shit. Tomorrow you tell what you know about your fucking brother, or we’ll come back and have another chat with you. Understood?” The last word had a hard tug added to it and Daryl gave an involuntary whine.

The man on top of him chuckled and the motion sent trembles through his entire body. Daryl felt sick.

The whole thing brought back other memories. Screams and begging, pain and blood. He suddenly remembered every word his father had yelled at him, ever beating, every bruise and every broken bone. He gritted his teeth together against the pain, both inside and out, and he heard the men laugh around him, adding humiliation to his misery.

The hand tugged at his hair again, “I said, understood?”

He nodded, even though his scalp screamed in pain. The man exhaled behind him.

“Good boy,” the man said and patted his cheek hard. Daryl cringed. “You speak or we come back. And tomorrow…” the hand in his hair tugged and forced his head sideways, more and more until his neck strained from it. A second hand took his jaw, and a finger ran over his bottom lip in a very slow, almost gentle motion before it moved down his neck, leaving his skin crawling as it did.

The touch sneaked over his ribs and down, until it crawled beneath his shirt, and creasedthe skin just above his hip.

Daryl froze; a whole new kind of fear seizing him.

The weight on his back shifted as the man leaned down. Daryl felt hot breath on his face and the man’s nose pressing against his cheek, breathing in deeply, and bile rose in his throat.

He couldn’t breathe. His couldn’t think. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could.

The hand beneath his shirt moved across his skin, touching him, gracing his scars. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t happening. It was a dream, a fucking nightmare. He would wake up soon, on the stupid cell-bed with that ridiculously thin blanket.

It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, _it wasn’t real_.

“Tomorrow…” the man hissed, too close to his ear, too close, too real, too real, “we’ll do more than just bruise your pretty face.” The hand moved from his hip and the man stroked his ass, before releasing his hair after another hard tug. He immediately buried his face in his arms, hiding in the crook of his elbow as well as he could.

The man stood up. The sudden missing weight from his back made him feel too light and at the same time it felt like his body weighted a thousand tons.

Not wanting the man to come near him again, he forced his body to move and quickly scrambled across the floor until he hit the wall, pressing himself against it. He kept his eyes shut and his arm protectively around his head. The men laughed and he heard the cell door open and then slam close. They laughter rang in the room and in his ears, long after they were gone.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, breathing hard and trembling.

Slowly, as his mind began to understand what had just happened, he uncurled from his position. His whole body hurt. His chin felt like it had been knocked loose and his stomach hurt so much he was sure he was going to piss blood for weeks.

The cell was still dark. He looked around, trying to see. He licked his lips, tasting blood and remembered the feeling on the man’s finger, and flinched as he heard a door slam somewhere inside the office area.

Fuck, they were coming back.

He hurried to the bed, and tried not to feel like a child as he dropped to the floor and crawled beneath it.

His breathing sounded too loud in his ears as he pressed himself against the wall, tugging his legs and arms close to his body. He hated how familiar the position felt, how his heart pounded in his chest and how his hands shook.

He stayed there for hours. The whole attack played over and over in his mind like a too violent action movie. Every time his exhausted body was ready to give out, his mind jolted him back, creating sounds and shadows that didn’t exist, making him curl up tighter and prepare himself for another attack.

It never came.

The night felt like an old routine. Hiding, shaking, and finally, a little piece of bravery, or stubbornness, grew inside him and he dared to leave his hiding place.

Finally he crawled out from under the bed and sat down on it instead. But he didn’t sleep. Not one bit. Every sound made him jump and he fought his own mind as it showed him what those men could do to him if they came back. Fear, humiliation and memories all swirled inside him and he rubbed at his eyes, his temples, his neck. His skin felt too tight.

He cursed them to hell. He cursed his life; he cursed Merle and Rick, and his dad. He cursed them all and wished he was back home. Alone and safe.

And what would happen tomorrow?

He had nothing to tell, he knew nothing about Merle. Why wouldn’t they believe him? And who the fuck where those men?

His mind raced and came with an answer too unreal, too scary and left him cold inside. He bit at the skin on his thumb. They had to be from the police. Or at least someone one of the cops knew. How else did they come into his cell in the middle of the night?

Either cops or friends of a cop. No matter what, it was a horrible thought.

What was he going to do? He didn’t know anything. If they came back…

He pressed himself against the wall as his body trembled.

He didn’t sleep the rest of the night, and when Walsh came the next morning, not blinking an eye at Daryl’s bruised face, he knew exactly how deep in trouble he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention I was going mean? Little warning, only gonna get worse from here.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it finally is. Don’t worry, I’m going to finish this story. Been busy though, with school and work, and it turned out I needed to get sick before I got the time to finish this chapter. 
> 
> That also means that I have fever right now, and the work pretty much shows that.
> 
> Other than that, thank you to everyone who took their time to leave comments and kudos. You have no idea how much it means to me. Thank you so much!

Rick was drunk. Really drunk.

Daryl had been late and apparently Rick didn’t need more than half an hour alone to get utterly wasted.

“Daryl!” Rick yelled and tried to get up from his chair, only to knock over his beer and nearly tumbled over the table. Confused and knowing most of the other customers look either at him or Rick; Daryl hurried over to the table, which thankfully was in a corner of the bar.

He grabbed Rick by the shoulder and steered him back down into his seat. Rick protested and laid his arm in the spilled beer, soaking his sleeve.

“Watch it, man,” Daryl said and pulled his arm away. Rick grinned dumbly at him.

“I’ve been waiting for you. And you came,” he said and reached out, touching Daryl’s shoulder.

Daryl snorted, “No shit, man. We agreed on meeting tonight,” he grabbed a napkin and began cleaning up the beer. He looked up at Rosie who stood behind the bar, watching them with a concerned look. He held up the soaked napkin and she nodded, grabbing some more from the bar and made her way over to them.

“Thanks Rosie,” he said and accepted the napkins. Rosie gave Rick a short look and then laid her hand on Daryl’s arm. He tried not to flinch.

“He’s been here a while. I stopped serving him about half an hour ago,” Daryl glanced at Rick who still looked at him with a dopey smile. Apparently Rosie hadn’t been quick enough. She must have been in a similar mind, for she gave him a sharp look, “I don’t want any trouble from him, okay?”

“Yeah, got it,” Daryl said and gave her a nod. She smiled and clapped him lightly on the arm before she turned around and headed back to the bar.

He pressed the rest of the napkins to the spilled beer, only mildly amused by how Rick kept placing his hands in the mess so Daryl had to wipe his fingers off too. How much had Rick been drinking? Daryl was only half an hour late after all.

“Come on, man. Knock it off.”

Rick grabbed his hand and pulled the wet napkins from his fingers. He dropped them on the table were they landed with a _splat_. Daryl tried to tug his hand free but Rick kept it in a tight grip. The look on his face had turned from dopey to predatory. With bared teeth he lifted Daryl’s hand up to his mouth and bit him at the knuckles.

Daryl pulled his hand back so fast he nearly knocked Rick on the front teeth. Taking a step back from the table and cradling his hand against his chest, he looked around the bar, panic surging up inside him, but no one was watching them.

He turned back to see Rick was getting up from his chair, legs still insecure beneath him and Daryl had to stop himself from reaching out to him. He could still feel the teeth scraping against his skin.

Rick crowded him and Daryl backed away. Rick followed, the grin still plastered on his face. A shiver went down Daryl’s back at the sight of the predatory look on Rick’s face. He swallowed nervously, feeling every nerve in his body tingle.

“Daryl,” Rick said, running his hand up his arm, fingers tightening at the shoulder.

“Rick, ya drunk,” Daryl tried to pull away but Rick just leaned closer. Daryl took another step backwards until his back hit the wall. Rick smirked and crowded him.

“I want you,” Rick slurred, “Right here, right now,” he stalked closer and Daryl tried to duck out of the way, only to be stopped by Rick who reached out and planted his hands on the wall, one on each side of Daryl’s head.

“Rick,” Daryl whispered and wetted his lips. His heart was beating like a drum in his chest. “Get a grip. Someone could see.”

“Fuck them,” Rick whispered and kissed him. Daryl tried to move away, but Rick grabbed him by the neck and brought their lips together.

He tasted like beer and that special thing Daryl had come to known as pure Rick, and he fell into it, helpless.

Clearly joyful that Daryl didn’t push him away, Rick pressed in closer, bringing their bodies together. His free hand sneaked down and rested on Daryl’s waist. Flushing hot from head to toe, Daryl moaned slightly and immediately pulled away; his mind reminded him why this was a bad idea. Rick was too drunk. They were out in the open, and there were too many people at the bar. But clever fingers were already turning his head back so their lips met again, and his hand was grabbing Rick’s shirt.

Tugging at his hair, Rick pulled them apart and instead attacked Daryl’s neck, nibbling and biting. Daryl moaned, and felt Rick smile against his neck.

“Want you,” Rick said again. His hands were everywhere and he pressed them together so Daryl clearly could feel how hard Rick was.

“Not in here,” Daryl managed get the words out between moans. Rick didn’t care apparently, so in the end, Daryl had to push Rick away and look at him sharply. “Not here.”

Rick breathed hard and blinked a few times, and then seemed to realize how close he was to actually jump Daryl’s bones.

“Outside?” he breathed, face and neck red. Daryl nodded and they disappeared out the back door, not unlike their first night.

In the shadow filled back of the bar, surrounded by containers and trash bags, Rick didn’t hesitate in pulling Daryl into the darkest corner where he continued his attack on his neck. And Daryl allowed it. He reveled in it as Rick fumbled with both their pants and then turned Daryl around.

Daryl closed his eyes and drowned in the feeling of finger sneaking through his hair, while a clever hand freed him from his pants.

When he got home, still with the taste of Rick all over his tongue, he lay in his bed and starred at the ceiling, realizing he might be getting into something dangerous.

……

“Sleep well?” asked Gareth Andron as he chained Daryl to the table.

Daryl didn’t answer. He barely noticed Andron’s question as he stared at himself in the mirror on the wall.

He looked like shit. It matched so perfectly how he felt.

His nose and cheek were bruised, and he had a good piece of skin missing just right of his chin. His stubbles had grown just a tad more, making him look unkempt and slightly feral. His hair was greasy and wild, and he dark shadows under his eyes.

Redneck trash.

Andron made sure the chain was secured before he left the room, but not before casting a look over his shoulder. He smiled.

Daryl fought the shiver that ran down his back.

He still fought it when Walsh came in, all business like. Clean shaven and with fresh shirt. He looked a little tired, but still far more rested that Daryl felt or looked for that matter.

“I have some news, Dixon,” Walsh said, standing before Daryl, “Michaels can’t be here today.” Daryl looked up at this. “His daughter is having a child in Chicago and he has travel all night to go see her.”

The shiver returned. His last help was gone?

“That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to us. Right?” Walsh smiled like a cat and slipped into his chair. Daryl’s chains rattled until he buried his fingers into his thighs, trying to stop the shaking. He tried to remember what Michaels had told him, about his chances and what the cops could demands for him.

His mind came up blank.

It was like being back in school and his dumb-ass bitch of a teacher asked him a question. She always had the same look on her face. Like she knew she was asking him something he didn’t know the answer to. Yet she asked him, just to see him squirm. Creepy bitch.

He couldn’t remember a single thing Michaels had told him. There was nothing.

Walsh looked at him expectantly and then all Daryl could think about was a hand touching his scars. A foul breath running across his cheek. Threats whispered into his ear.

He felt sick. The chain began to rattle again, and he had to grab it tightly to make it stop. It felt warm against his skin.

He had to say something. Anything, or they would come back.

Cops or friends of cops. Those were the only possibilities.

Were they walking in the hall outside the room? Were they watching him through the glass, eyes on his every move, ready to come again tonight if he didn’t talk? Or were they standing by some water fountain, grinning together at what they had done? How they had made him whine like a beaten dog?

The thought made his cheeks burn.

In the harsh light of the room, the memory of the night seemed so much worse. Like a very bad dream. Fucking nightmare he knew would repeat itself if he didn’t come up with an answer. His head felt empty except for the fear creeping in. Old feeling, that one. Would he ever stop fearing the night?

Walsh said something but Daryl didn’t listen and didn’t really give a shit. His mind was miles away. He didn’t even hear the door open or notice Rick entering. Not before the man stood beside Walsh, fury on his face.

“A word, Shane. Now.” he said it politely enough, but his whole body screamed anger, and Daryl had to lean back in his chair, not comfortable being this close to Rick when he was like that.

It was actually weird seeing him again. Until now the mere sight of Rick had been like a punch in the stomach. Now Rick almost seemed pointless. Daryl had bigger problems.

Walsh masked his annoyance well. He looked at Daryl and wetted his lips with his tongue, and then gave Rick a short-cut nod. He stood up and headed for the door.

Rick hesitated.

Daryl eyed him carefully.

Rick was looking at him like he did the first night. He was taking in Daryl’s appearance. And Daryl carefully watched him react to what he saw.

He recognized the emotions flashing over Rick’s otherwise controlled face. Horror, sadness, guilt… but not surprise.

Daryl looked like a man who had gotten his ass handed to him; he knew that, he had seen it in the mirror. It had surprised him how bad he looked. It didn’t surprise Rick.

He looked guilty.

And that was probably the final nail.

Every thought about Rick, every feeling he had been too scared to poke at, every little flutter of his heart when Rick had smiled at him. Every kiss. Every touch. Every little fucking thing.

They all turned dark in his mind. They smelt rotten and tasted like shit. They ripped him apart in a way he had never thought possible.

He expected a whirlwind of emotion to hit him. That this new information would make his dizzy and confused, and that his stomach should clench painfully and made him feel sick to his very core.

Nothing happened. Instead, his whole being focused on one single, ice-cold, heart-wrenching thought.

Rick knew.

Daryl probably looked like a bucket of ice had been thrown over him. He stared at Rick who knew. He fucking knew.

Guilty and horrified at what had happed, at how Daryl looked. But not surprised.

How long had he know? Had he gotten some message this morning by another cop? _The bastard will tell us everything if he knows what’s best for him_. Had he looked sternly at whoever had said it, jaw clenched and pretending he didn’t care about a redneck that got a little ruffled up?

_I don’t have the night shift_

No. He was in on it from the beginning.

_So_

He had known.

_So I won’t be here tonight._

He had known. He had tried to say it, Daryl knew it. _It won’t be me_ , he had said without saying. _It’s not me who will come._ Daryl remembered how Rick had looked at him. It hadn’t been a warning; there had been no help in those eyes. He had tried saved his own skin. _It won’t be me._

He had known from the fucking beginning, and he hadn’t warned Daryl.

After everything they had done together, after two months of being so close, closer than Daryl had ever been with anyone else, ever. After eighteen times of whispered words, brushing fingers, light touches and kisses that got more and more daring each time they met.

After everything, Rick had known. And he hadn’t said a damn thing.

Had he been a different man, Daryl had laughed.

For there it was. The punch-line to his whole fucking life.

_What I tellin’ you, baby brother, an’t trust them._ Merle whispered, _you're a joke is what you are. Nothin’ but a freak to them. Redneck trash._

Rick saw it dawn on his face and he paled. Yeah, he knew it too now.

For a second, he thought Rick might say something, anything. Apologize maybe. But he didn’t. Instead he turned and followed Walsh out of the room, leaving Daryl alone with the mirror and whoever was behind it, and Merle snickering in his head, like so many times before.

_People like that, they laugh at you behind your back. You know that, don't you?_

Yeah, he knew. Merle was right, always had been. Daryl just hadn’t listened. And now he fucking paid for being too blue-eyed.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Daryl noticed Walsh hadn’t come back yet. How long he starred emptily into space he didn’t know. He looked at the mirror, watching the man in there stare back him. He looked broken. Then he heard the voices.

Someone was arguing outside the room. He heard them rise in anger but not what they fought about. He thought one of them might be Walsh, but he wasn’t sure. Not until the door slammed opened and Walsh strode in, fuming with anger. Rick stood in the hall, glaring at Walsh.

Rick had fought with Walsh?

Walsh didn’t look at either of them as he pulled out his chair and sat down. Rick was pale, his hands clenched at his side, and before the door swung shut, Rick looked at Daryl and something settled on his face, making him seem a little darker. Then the door clicked shut and Rick was gone.

“So,” snapped Walsh and folded his hands on the table, “Anything you want to tell me?”

_You know that, don't you?_ Merle whispered.

Daryl made his decision. Yeah, he had been a fool and was going to pay for it. But fuck if he was just going to roll over.

He leaned forward slightly and hissed at Walsh. “Go fuck yourself.”

…..

When he was about five, Merle was gone, serving time yet again for some petty crime with some guys that he would later turn into his own little gang. Daryl missed him but took it in a stride, it wasn’t the first time, and even his kid-brain knew it wouldn’t be the last.

But Merle was gone, which meant their father had lost his usual punching bag.

It didn’t happen every day. But more times than he could ever count.

His father would get drunk, really drunk, and when he got tired of shooting at random things in the house, he got up from his chair and walked upstairs.

It was a sound Daryl hated, and feared. Steady and slow, the sound of heavy feet pressing down on old wooden steps, creaking and groaning all the way to the top.

Daryl was usually in his room when he heard it, and he waited, hoped, wished that it didn’t happening. It always did.

The footsteps moved across the floor, getting louder and Daryl could feel his body tense, his heartbeat speed up a little as the sound got louder. He pressed his hands over his ears and bit his lip.

And he would pray, to anyone who would listen. _Please, make it stop._

If he was lucky, his dad walked past his room, and the relief he felt was overwhelming.

When he was unlucky, his door was kicked in and his dad came into his room, smelling of beer, sweat and smokes. No matter what Daryl was doing, playing or looking in his books, it pissed his dad off. With a yell he grabbed Daryl, usually by the hair and dragged him downstairs and outside where he readied the belt.

As he got older he began fighting back. It only resulted in pissing his dad off even more. And after his mom died it only got worse. Then Merle would come home and his dad turned his attention back to him and Daryl would have a break. Never lasted long, since Merle was in and out of jail all the time.

With Merle gone, Daryl was the target. And the older he got the angrier his dad seemed to get.

Daryl stopped praying, and sometimes fighting, for it was just easier to curl up and let it happen.

When he got home one day to find his dad dead in his chair, he cried. For what kind of a son was he, to feel relieved that his dad was gone? He guessed he paid for feeling that way, for yeah, the bastard might be dead, but the fear never really left. He told himself it did, that he had outgrown it.

But when he jolted awake, pulled out of sleep by the sound of footsteps coming closer, he knew. He would never outgrow it. Never. Rooted too deeply inside him.

Only bright side was that thanks to that, at least he had time to brace himself before he was pulled off the bed and hit the floor with a pained grunt.

…

He fought like possessed. His whole body was sore and hurting, but he fought. He kicked and punched and used both teeth and nails. He didn’t care at all how bitchy he fought. He fought as if his life depended on it.

He had cowered the night before. He hadn’t been prepared. He was now.

The men, three of them again, cursed and yelled and were surprised by his struggle. But they were still more than him and didn’t have aching ribs. With combined help, they grabbed his arm and got him down on the floor, laying him flat on his back like a defenseless turtle. Two of them held him as the third kicked him in the ribs. He grunted in pain and desperately tried to get free from their hold.

The third then got down and punched him in the face twice, splitting his lip.

He had really angered them then, he knew. Until now, they had done their best not to hurt his face. The scrapes on his chin he gotten from kissing the floor could be explained as clumsiness, but a black eye and bruised cheek was a little harder.

Either they didn’t care or they were just desperate enough to risk it. Both promised bad for Daryl.

The third man grabbed his shirt and aimed another punch at him, but Daryl lifted his head and buried his teeth into the man’s knuckles and didn’t let go. The man yelled and released the shirt. His free hand grabbed Daryl by the hair and pulled until he let go of the skin, tasting blood.

The man barked out an order and they turned him over so he was flat on his belly again, face pressed against the floor. He pawed at the floor, fingers and nails scraping over the cold surface, hoping to find anything that use to get his attackers off.

“Stop moving!” one of them said and hit him over the head with a flat hand. Daryl’s whole body was shaking. Then someone sat down on his legs. He tried to kick out but it was no use. Once again, he was stuck.

Slowly the shaking turned to trembling as his limbs one after one was held down. He had lost. They had him pinned on the floor, just like the night before. He shook his head in denial. It wasn’t happening.

It was happening.

He couldn’t stop the shaking as their hold on his arms got tighter. One of them pressed down on his back, using his whole body this time to hold Daryl down. A hand in his hair kept him still as words were hissed into his ear.

“Remember what I promised you?” it was him again. And he sounded pissed.

A hand sneaked between them and grabbed his ass. Daryl bit his lip and tried to shake him off to no use.

“Remember?” the hand then stroked his ass hard, rubbing his cheeks until it moved upwards, fingers toying with his belt. “For it seems to me like you’ve forgotten.”

Acid rose in his throat and he tried to swallow it down, but the man pulled at his hair, forcing his head back and he nearly choked on it instead.

“Maybe he wants it,” said the one grabbing his right arm too tightly.

The third man laughed. The finger sneaked just below his waistband. They were warm. His body shook violently now.

“Stop, please!” he choked out, the words nearly getting stuck in his throat.

The cell fell into silence and the man on top of him – fuck, just the thought – shifted slightly. The fingers stilled but didn’t move away from his skin.

“What was that?”

“Fuck--I’ll tell, just--please don’t!” he was rambling, throwing out words. He’d thought he could fight this, fight them, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough. “I’ll tell!”

The fingers moved below his waistband, just slightly.

The man on top of him pulled at his hair, turning his head sideways. Breath, stinking of beer and cigarettes, hit him square in the face and he gagged.

“I don’t believe you.”

The scream was locked away in his throat as the fingers tugged at his pants, and his head was pressed down against the floor.

No.

The one on his left breathed harder now.

No!

The other snickered sickly and secured his grip on Daryl’s arm. Cold air hit his ass.

No, no no no!

Nails scraped his skin as his pants were pulled down, further and further, and fingers grabbed his ass so hard it hurt.

He heard a belt buckle open, and a zipper being pulled down. All the hands on his body grabbed him harder and air prickled around him, like thunder about to strike. _No!_ was the only thing in Daryl’s head.

They all jumped as the music began to play.

A loud, shrilling version of _Bad Company_ began to play in the cell, and it was so surrealistic that Daryl for a second forgot what was happening. The three men seemed just as shocked and it took a few moments before Daryl realized what it was.

A ringtone.

“For fuck’s sake,” said the man on top of him, bringing Daryl straight back to reality and what was happening. The hand left his ass and the man moved around a bit. The music got louder before it was cut off suddenly as the man answered the phone.

“What?” he demanded. His two friends were silent, still holding Daryl to the floor. Silence filled the cell, and even though he tried, Daryl couldn’t hear what the caller was saying.

“You’re sure?” asked the man, sounding almost disappointed. Then he sighed, “Fine,” and ended the call.

They all waited.

The man still had his hand on the back of Daryl’s head, and as he leaned down, the pressure had Daryl’s teeth cut into the inside of mouth.

“You got lucky there, fucker,” he hissed and got up, but not before giving Daryl’s head a hard push against the floor, filling his mouth with blood.

Not understanding what was happening, Daryl didn’t move as two others were ordered to leave. Even when they released him he didn’t dare to move a muscle. The two were just as confused as he was, and they complained a little but finally left the cell.

Daryl had closed his eyes and kept them closed until he heard the cell-door slam shut. The door to the hall closed. The sound of their boots disappeared slowly.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone.

With dull, fumbling fingers, he got his pants back up around his waist. Then he crawled to the toilet and threw up. He spat into the bowl again and again, but blood kept filling his mouth. He threw up again and rested his head against the cold metal.

He wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t sweating. He just felt empty and very, very tired.

He crawled back to the bed and fell asleep at once.

…

He could barely sit up without pain lashing through his stomach. He didn’t eat the sad excuse for breakfast they gave him, since the task of just chewing was more than painful. The skin on his chin had long since stopped bleeding, now slowly scabbing over. It already itched.

He hadn’t bothered to lift up in his shirt. There was no point in eyeing the damage. He had felt along the most pained spot earlier, making sure there were no broken ribs. He had been lucky, or the men had just been very good at their job.

He had to face his hands though. His fingertips were rubbed raw. The skin was literally rubbed off after he had tried to crawl away. The damage wasn’t deep enough to bleed constantly, as finger cuts tend to do. No, just enough to leave them skinless and hurting as hell. The nails were not looking much better.

His right little finger was swollen and deep-blue around the middle. He didn’t even remember anything happening to it, though he suspected a healed boot had something to do with it.

He didn’t understand what had happened last night. His mind wasn’t working. The attack played in his head, but it seemed grainy and without color. He didn’t understand.

Why had they just left? And who had called?

He didn’t understand.

It had been a young cop he hadn’t seen before who had brought him the food. The mere thought of eating made his stomach curl and shrink to nothing. But he drank the orange juice. It was nice tasting something other than stomach acid. His mouth had finally stopped bleeding.

It was a new cop who fetched and brought him to the room. As he walked down the hall, he kept tugging his shirt down and pull up at his pants. He felt exposed. He had done his best to cover himself, but his belt couldn’t be tightened anymore than it already was. He could barely breathe but it was worth it.

The cop chained him to the table and he waited. And avoided looking into the mirror. He might not have a choice in facing other people, but he wasn’t going to face himself. Not now.

He waited for Walsh, but he never came. Instead, Rick walked in, carrying a stack of papers.

Feeling and thinking nothing, Daryl watched as Rick took Walsh’s seat and laid the papers out before Daryl.

RELEASE FORM, the top one said in large letters, which was the only thing Daryl’s mind could process. Everything else on the paper made no sense in his head, and he looked up at Rick, not understanding.

“We are releasing you without charges.” Rick said. Daryl blinked at him. They were letting him go?

“You need to sign it.” Rick reached over and placed a black pen on top of the papers. Daryl stared at it and then back at Rick.

“What?”

Rick swallowed and scratched at his beard, “Your brother… came to us last night. He agreed to come quietly on the one condition that we let you go without any charges. The Sheriff took the deal and you are free to go as soon as you sign the papers. I faxed a copy to you lawyer and he has already looked it over.”

Rick might as well be speaking Chinese. Nothing he said made any sense to Daryl, and as he kept on talking, Daryl very slowly began to understand what Rick was saying.

Merle had let himself be arrested?

Daryl was free to go, and without charges?

Merle had let himself be arrested so Daryl could walk.

None of it made any sense. It was a trap. A trick. He shook his head and then looked down at the papers lying in front of him.

They were lying. Merle was gone, probably in Florida right now. No way in fucking hell would he ever be taken in. And especially not for Daryl. They were lying.

“Daryl?” Rick’s voice sounded muffled, “Sign the paper and you can go home.”

Home.

It sounded too good to be true. Probably was.

He signed the papers.

…

He was freed from the table and let out of the room. There were other papers to sign and he did so without really understanding what they were saying.

The police station seemed busy. Cops and people looking like civilians walked around, carrying cups and papers. No one really seemed to notice him as he stood by the front counter, waiting to get his things returned to him.

There was life around him, people, and it was a sudden change from the silence of the cell and the nightmare still going on replay in his mind. It was like a switch had been turned on and everything that had happened suddenly seemed so far away. He was still on the guard for all this to be another trick, but as he signed papers and waited, and nothing happened, he slowly began to nurse the hope that Rick might have been right.

Maybe he really was going home.

All the while, Rick kept explaining what had happened. Daryl fought to keep up, but the information he got just sounded so unreal.

Apparently Merle had come knocking on a patrolling police car just outside town, telling them his name and what he had done, and what he demanded in return of a peaceful arrest; Daryl’s freedom.

Rick told him that normally they didn’t do that, but since the case against Daryl was weak to begin with, thanks to Michaels, they had agreed at let him go.

Merle had given himself up for Daryl. Hell just froze over.

When everything seemed to be in order, Rick asked if he had any questions.

Daryl had thousands and he was ready to get some answers. But they all died in his throat as he saw Walsh. Crisp and clean as always, he stood leaning against a desk, keeping his eyes on Daryl. In his hand he had a cup which he sipped from. He noticed Daryl watching him and lowered the cup and began to swirl the coffee inside it around.

His expression was bored.

Daryl watched the cup and the swirling coffee; wishing the hot drink would spill over the bustard’s fingers and burn him seven ways to hell. He watched and wished, and then felt his breath leave him.

The skin on Walsh’s knuckles was bruised. No, not bruised, more like torn.

It wasn’t like a beacon in the night, but to Daryl it might as well be. Red and angry looking, with the skin split several places, almost in a crescent like shape.

He looked up at Walsh’s face, taking in his bored expression, his leaned back posture, like a man who had it all figures out. A victor waiting for the loser to bow down before his feet.

Fucking hell.

Without realizing it, he had taken a step towards Walsh “You…”

Walsh looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What was that?”

“It was you,” Daryl said. He felt like his mind was frozen. All he could think about what the hand clenching his hair, the body on top of his own. The breath on his skin and the dark words whispered to him, promising him the worst hell he could imagine.

The sound of a zipper being pulled down.

Walsh just pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. “Sorry, I don’t understand.” And then he smiled, slowly and with an expression that said it all, and Daryl knew he was right. It was Walsh. Of course it was Walsh.

Everything narrowed down to him and Walsh, and he moved forward.

Arms were locked around him, pulling him back. Someone screamed his name but all he could think about was how much he wanted to curl his fingers around Walsh’s throat. He had never before felt such an urge to hurt.

“Daryl! Stop it!”

Whoever held him was fast. The arms circling his him let go and as he moved forward, ready to strangle Walsh, they grabbed him by the shoulder and sneaked around his throat. He snarled when they locked themselves around his head and he was pulled backwards.

He watched the shocked faces as he was dragged away, all except Walsh who just looked mad as hell.

He was dragged through a door which swung close behind them. He couldn’t breathe and pawed at the arm around his neck, but it didn’t loosen up.

“Chokeholds illegal.” He managed to snarl, nails digging into the arm and he heard a huffed laughter.

The front door to the station was kicked open and he was pulled outside. The hold on his neck got tighter until he fell to his knees, feeling lightheaded.

“Are you going to be calm or do I need to cuff you?” Rick asked, keeping Daryl still.

Rick was holding him. Fuck.

He nodded and let his hands fall, just wanting Rick to let go of him. And to breathe again.

After a few seconds, Rick took a breath and then let him go.

Daryl sucked in air and stumbled away from Rick, landing on his knees on the grass beside the entrance to the station. He felt along his neck with a hand. Great, another place to be sore. Fucking Rick.

There was a very little, tiny part of his brain that recognized that Rick had just saved him from getting charged for assaulting an officer in public. But hell if he cared right now.

Walsh. It had been Walsh.

Fury unlike anything he had ever felt before filled him. Walsh had come into his cell at night. it was him who had punched him, sat on him, touched…

If he had anything in his stomach he might have thrown up. Instead he punched the grass, once, twice. His hurt finger screamed at him but he kept going until the silliness of punching the ground became too much.

Behind him, he heard Rick move closer, and he snapped his head up to glare at him. Rick stopped and quickly held his hands up in a peaceful gesture. Daryl shook his head in warning, eyes narrowing, hoping Rick got the message and stayed the hell away from him, or he would hit him. Then he began hoping Rick didn’t get it, his grass-stained hand clenched by his side.

He did though. He stayed away.

Daryl didn’t want to look at him and instead focused on getting back on his feet. The sudden rush of it all had left him, and now he felt how tired he was. All he wanted was to go home, take a shower and forget any of this ever happened. Forget Rick, forget Walsh, and forget Merle.

But it only took one step for him to realize it would take longer than a shower for him to forget. He ended up moving too fast and had to stop, nearly falling over from the pain spreading through his chest.

He wrapped his arms around his middle, groaning and tried to stay on his feet. He heard Rick curse and felt him grab him under the arms, steering him away from the path and over to a bench beside the door.

“Sit still, okay, I’ll… I’ll…”

Daryl snorted and pulled away from Rick’s hands, but he did sit down, not wanting to humiliate himself more by falling flat on his face. He closed his eyes and took some very deep breaths. They hurt and he had to grit his teeth together.

“Did anyone check you out?” Rick asked. Daryl shook his head. “Fuck. Why don’t I get a car and drive-“

“You aren’t fuckin’ drivin’ me anywhere, _Grimes_.” Daryl said, lacing his voice with every amount of hate he could muster through the pain. Despite the fire in his chest, he got up and out of Rick’s reach. He heard him protests but was already halfway down the driveway. Then he remembered he didn’t have his truck. It was still at Jake’s, which where a good twenty minutes outside of town, with wheels. And his house was even further.

Sure, why the hell not.

“Daryl?”

Oh, it just got better and better. “What?”

“You need a ride somewhere?”

Did he even have any pride left? Was it beaten out of him in that cell and washed down the in the toilet with the rest of the blood? The answer was apparently yes, and so was his. He nodded to Rick, who seemed way too relieved. He disappeared back inside, and Daryl sat down on the bench again.

It was weird being outside. Beside the bench stood a tree and he could hear the wind move the leaves around. He decided it was a good sound. The sun was a little sharp and the heat pretty high since midday was nearing. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the bench, taking in everything and savoring that it wasn’t the cell. Fresh air and sunlight, so far from that fucking cell.

But thinking about the cell only made him think about Walsh, and the anger returned.

He glanced at the police station, taking in its cold, hard facade. He hoped for Walsh’s sake that he never saw him again. Next time, he wouldn’t yield.

A police car pulled up beside the path and Daryl tensed until he recognized Rick in the driver’s seat. He snorted in disgust but still walked over, finding his jacket and keys in a bag on the front seat.

Climbing into the front – no way in hell he was ever going in the back again – he buckled himself in. Then Rick suggested a hospital but Daryl shook his head and told Rick were to go, ignoring his protests, and leaned back in his seat as Rick drove them away from the station. They didn’t speak as they drove out of town and towards Jake’s, but Rick kept glancing at Daryl.

He nearly watched Daryl more than he did the traffic. He kept opening his mouth like he wanted to say something, but words never came. Daryl stayed silent and waited. If Rick wanted to say something then he should, fuck if Daryl would give him an opening.

And he finally did, it was when they stopped before a red light. Rick’s fingers drummed nervously against the wheel and he glanced out the side window instead.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said in low voice. Daryl tensed briefly.

“You can’t.”

Rick turned to look fully at him, eyes so blue and so emotional Daryl was nearly drawn into them. “Why not?”

The light turned green but Rick ignored it.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Asked Daryl and met Rick’s stare dead on. He saw how the light in them dimmed at his question, how the sharp lines in Rick’s face softened slightly, and he had his answer. They just looked at each other.

“Not… not until it had already happened,” said Rick and wetted his lips, the guilty expression sneaking its way back unto his face. The light turned red again. “Shane called me. He was drunk and he told me.”

Rick looked away, fingers now lying still on the wheel. “I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it.” The light turned green and they drove on. The small town stores slowly slit past them and made way for small houses with white fences instead. It all looked so alien to Daryl.

“I tried to stop them,” Rick said, eyes now only focused on the traffic before him. “Sheriff told me stay out of it. Your brother is worth it, he said. Merle Dixon is worth breaking a few rules over.”

So to them, Daryl had only been useful because of Merle. Walsh had beaten him for two nights straight, just because they wanted Merle. Daryl had lived a fucking nightmare because his brother was worth it.

Guilty by association, then. Guilty by kin and blood. A Dixon can only ever trust a Dixon. Everyone thought it and it all came down to the same thing.

Daryl was a Dixon, and that fact alone was enough for the world to lash out at him. Social heritage indeed.

He supposed it was good to know. He had tried all his life to stay out of trouble, but in the end it wasn’t worth shit. Apparently his name _was_ enough to send his to jail, and he would have, if it hadn’t been for Merle, saving his ass, and once again proving to Daryl that his brother was right. No one cared about him but Merle.

Whatever anger he still felt, it deflated then. He didn’t feel it anyone, not really. He just felt so powerless.

Everything that had happened to him these last couple of days had left him hurting in so many ways.

Scars and bruises he could deal with. Time would take care of those. It was the fact that the man sitting beside him had for weeks been the only light in his otherwise crappy world.

He had always told himself his life was fine. Sure his childhood had been rotten to the core, but he did fine. Better than Merle who spend more time behind bars that out of them. Daryl wasn’t stupid; he knew he had his issues to work with. He didn’t like people touching him; he didn’t like people getting too close. He didn’t like the way some would look at him and only saw a stupid redneck.

But he had liked it when Rick touched him, when he got close. He had liked how Rick had looked at him and only seen _Daryl_. Not Dixon, not some backyard trash. Just Daryl. Nothing more, nothing less.

It had been good. It had made him want to be Daryl.

Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted. A shower, yes. Some sleep, absolutely. But other than that? Maybe just for the pain to stop. The pain he felt every time he moved, and the pain he felt whenever he looked at fucking Rick Grimes and saw that look in his eyes.

For he would never be _just_ Daryl again. No, it was gone. He might as well have Dixon written across his forehead.

Rick didn’t say a word as he drove up and stopped before Jake’s. It looked like it always did. A few bikes were even parked outside it, alongside Daryl’s truck. His old beauty was still in one piece and waiting for him. He actually felt relieved when he saw it.

“Thanks,” he muttered and opened the car door. Rick stared at the wheel before him, not saying a single word as Daryl grabbed his stuff and climbed out, closing the door behind him. He pulled on his jacket and waited, but the car didn’t move. Finally he just shook his head and walked around it, hands fumbling with his pockets in search of his keys.

The police car behind him then suddenly roared and dust and stones went flying into the air as Rick punched it too hard. He drove off and only when he couldn’t hear it anymore, Daryl turned around and looked at the dusty air it left behind.

In his pocket he finally found the keys and pulled them out. Something else went along and fell to the ground before his feet. White and small it lied there, and seriously, it was just ridicules. Bowing and groaning in pain, he grabbed the folded paper and straightened up.

Even though he already knew what it was, for yes, the world was just that cruel; he still unfolded it, not really knowing why.

Rick’s number stared up at him.

He crumbled it up in his hand and then dropped it. It fell to the ground and was dragged away by a small breeze. He quickly turned and marched over to his truck. Dust had settled on it and he would have to wash it later.

He opened the door just as he heard the shout.

It came from Jake’s, a man standing in the door waving his hands at him. Daryl recognized him even though he didn’t remember his name. It was one of Merle’s men.

He waved Daryl over and then looked over his shoulder, yelling something into the bar.

Not seeing why he shouldn’t, Daryl closed the door and walked closer. The memories of the night he got arrested flashed before his eyes, and he wondered if they had repaired the damage inside the bar. He didn’t see any signs that the police was still closing the place. No cars, no cops, no yellow tape before the doors. It looked just like it always did.

The man in the doorway was still waving as Daryl got closer. His face was red and he was more than fat, his shirt no longer able to cover his belly.

When he was close enough so he could look past the man’s shoulder and into the bar, it was too late. They came from all around him, must having sneaked out through the back door and then around the sides. He could do nothing as they grabbed his arms and held his fast as the fat man began hitting him in the stomach and face. They took turns and somehow all managed to hit where he was already bruised. And they didn’t have to worry about being obvious.

He blacked out at some point, and woke to the world swirling. The ground beneath his cheek was moving and all he could see was black boots. Someone bowed down and placed their face up close to his, making him flinch and blink at the tears he didn’t know had gathered in his eyes.

“Don’t ever show your face here again, you filthy cop-fucker. Or we’ll make sure ol’ Merle won’t have any family left when he gets out.”

He got another kick to the stomach but was past crying out. He just curled up, letting the tears fall and waited until they left him alone, lying on the ground. The door to the bar closed and all he heard was his own breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah well... to be honest, I know this is not my best work. I seriously hate this chapter. It's awful but I cant do anything with it right now. Maybe in a year or two, I can come back and take a look, but for now, this is it.
> 
> Still, I hope it wasn't a total disappointment.
> 
> I still have one or maybe two chapters to go, and I promise to post them faster than this time.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading^^


	8. Chapter 8

The water gathering by his feet was tinted with red. The foam he got from the old, scentless bar of soap turned brown as he scrubbed his body as thoroughly as he could. The water was as freezing as always, but he stopped feeling it after a while. He stopped feeling anything as his body cooled down and turned numb.

He could see his hands tremble when he looked at them, and he knew his legs shook even worse. Numb and weak he slid down the wall and sat in dirty, cold water, letting the shower cool his body even more.

When he suddenly opened his eyes without even knowing he had closed them, he knew it was time to get out of the shower. It was difficult. His body was stiff, and it was a struggle stretching his legs and raising his arms. He had to crawl out and support himself on the sink or he would have fallen and probably cracked his head on the toilet. It was a tempting thought.

The one towel he found smelled musty, but at least it was dry. He tried not to look at his body when he ran the towel over his skin, but it was impossible. There didn’t seem to be a single place without a bruise. It didn’t even look like his anymore.

The house was dark and quiet; he hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights when he came home, and he walked blindly to his room and collapsed on the bed, not even pulling on a shirt. He pulled his blanket over his cold body, tugged it over his head and breathed in the familiar smell of home.

The sleep he got was short-lived. He had barely closed his eyes before they were over him, holding him down. Fingers grabbed his hair and foul breath filled his nose as they came in from all sides. He had crawled under his bed before he was even fully awake.

With a shaking body he crawled back in bed, only to have it all happen again as the terrors attacked him in his sleep.

In a way, it was worse than the actual beating. He could deal with that and the pain, had all his life, but his mind playing like this? Hell no. The seventh time he tried to sleep was the worst one of all of them.

They were everywhere and they never stopped. Tools came out and they became creative. Walsh ripped off his clothes and licked his cheek while Rick held him down, grinning at him the whole time. The gang members then took their turn, calling him a cop-fucker while hitting him and breaking his fingers one after another.

He woke shaking and gasping, with the sound of bones snapping in hears and Rick grinning still flashing before his eyes, and finally he gave up. He got out of bed and dressed, and then walked into the living room and turned on the television. The crappy old screen didn’t show colors and the shapes where barely visible, but the sound worked fine, and whatever cartoon it was, it was filled with music and silly sounds. So very far from the sounds that played over and over in his head. He lay down on the couch and just listened, and tried to stay awake.

He actually managed it and when the sun rose, Daryl finally tried to get up from the couch but with no luck. His body hurt. It had been years since he had gotten a beating like this, and even when his father had been fucking pissed off, even then, he hadn’t hurt Daryl like this.

There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hurt like a bitch. Without the cold from the shower or the numbing fear from the nightmares, he could feel every bruise on his body. His clothes didn’t cover all of his skin, so he could also see them. Black and blue they ran down his arms. He recognized their shape and could even place his own fingers over them in a nearly perfect match.

He stayed on the couch all day until hunger finally got him off it. He walked like an old man, legs stiff, with one arm round his middle and the other on the wall so he didn’t fall flat on his face on the way to the kitchen.

It was a dump of empty beer cans and bottles, and stale food on unwashed plates, but Daryl managed to locate a few cans with soup in the back of a cabinet. There were nothing to cook with, and even if there were, Daryl wouldn’t know how. Instead he just placed the cans directly on the stove and turned it on.

Surprisingly enough, it didn’t burn down the house, and even got the soup heated up enough for him to eat it. He returned to the couch and tried to drink the soup without spilling it all over himself. The finger one of the cops had stomped on was still swollen and blue, and hurt like a bitch, and Daryl tried not to bend it at all.

The soup didn’t taste of anything but it was warm and he curled around it and tried to let it heat up his cold body. When the can was empty he went back to bed, not able to keep his eyes open.

_Acid rose in his throat and he tried to swallow it down, but the man pulled at his hair, forcing his head back and he nearly choked on it instead._

_“Maybe he wants it,” said the one grabbing his right arm too tightly._

_The third man laughed. The finger sneaked just below his waistband. They were warm. His body shook violently now._

_“Stop, please!” he choked out, the words nearly getting stuck in his throat._

He woke in cold sweat, heart beating like it wanted to jump from his body. He nearly wished it would. He stared into the darkness of his room, trying to calm down. He was so tired. He could hear his blood rush in his ears, and his mouth was so dry. Still, his eyes slowly closed.

_The man on top of him pulled at his hair, turning his head sideways. Breath, stinking of beer and cigarettes, hit him square in the face and he gagged._

_“I don’t believe you.”_

He woke again, this time with a muffled yell. Feeling hands all over his body, Daryl swung out with his arm, hitting nothing but somehow managing to roll off the bed, landing hard on the floor with a pained groan.

He pressed his forehead against the floor. Fuck. Fuck it all to hell.

There was no rest here, it was getting painfully clear. The dreams wouldn’t let him sleep. The house wouldn’t let him sleep. His dad was in the living room, sitting in his chair and yelling at him to bring him a beer. Merle was in his room, fucking some high-pitch girl who screamed way too much. And Walsh was outside his room, waiting.

He had no idea what time it was, and he didn’t care. He made a decision and got up from the floor and began packing. It took forever. His body was stiff and the little trip down from from the bed seemed to have added more bruises to his existing ones. He pulled on some clothes he found on the floor, and stuffed whatever his dull mind could process as useful into a duffel bag, a plan slowly forming in his head.

He raided the entire house, searching for anything he might need. Only room he stayed out of was Merle’s.

He stacked all his stuff into the truck, all the while looking around in the darkness that had fallen over the house while he slept. He could hear the cars driving down on the main road, and it made the hairs on his neck stand up, his mind whispering to him how much it sounded like roaring bikes.

He left the house and drove; pretty sure he broke every traffic law on his way. It had been a few years but he still remembered the route pretty well.

Out of town, over the hills until forest was packed closely around both sides of the road. An old track was almost hidden between trees and bushes, but he knew it by heart. It was unkempt and full of holes, and every movement of the truck made his body ache and his head spin.

He didn’t know how long he drove, only that it was pure torture for his body as the road gave away to barely-tamed forest floor, but finally he saw it. Uncle Jess’ old hunting cabin.

It was small and exactly how he remembered it, lying low and nestled closely in between trees and bushes, hidden perfectly. If you weren’t looking for it, you would miss it entirely in the darkness. The headlight from his truck hit it and lit up the dusty windows like sleepy eyes. It looked like no one had been there in years, expect for the front door. It was wide open.

That was odd.

Daryl parked the truck closely beside the cabin. He grabbed his flashlight and headed for the front door. He realized it wasn’t just open, it was gone. It looked like the door had been kicked in judging by the large pieces of wood torn from the frame. Grabbing his flashlight a little tighter, hurting his finger in the process, Daryl slowly walked around the cabin. Everything was overgrown, and it was hard as hell getting around the small house in the darkness.

He shined through every window and checked the back door, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Finally he returned to the front of the cabin and slowly entered through the broken frame. He had been right; the front door was a goner. Broken off its hinges, it was lying in the living room, cracked in the middle and with splinters all over the place. Wind was blowing softly in through the opening, bringing a chilly night air and leaves with it. 

It was dark inside. That weird stuffed darkness you only met inside a building and not knowing what’s hiding inside of it. Carefully Daryl went inside, stepping over the broken door and shined with his flashlight around the room. It was empty.

He turned off flashlight and stood in the darkness, trying to listen. He heard nothing. He turned around and when his foot hit something he nearly jumped out of his skin. With his heart thumping in his chest, he turned his flashlight back on and searched the floor. Empty beer cans were all over the place, and papers, crumble cigarette packs, and trash was littering the floor.

Frowning, he kneeled down to get a closer look at one of the cans. It was Merle’s favorite beer.

Confused, he now looked through cabin and found the trail his brother had left. Food wrappers, clothes, even his stash – something Merle never left behind – and as far as Daryl knew, neither of them had been at the cabin in years.

Unless...

Merle had hid here after that night at Jake’s.

Daryl was actually a little impressed. Merle wasn’t the sharpest knife, but he was damn sly when needed. Uncle Jess didn’t have the Dixon name, since he’d been a friend of their dad and was more of an adopted uncle, so records wouldn’t show any relation to them. Merle knew that and hid in the cabin, knowing the cops wouldn’t find him here.

But why was the door kicked down?

Had Merle knocked it down he came running here? It sounded possible. But when Daryl searched for the key outside, he found the nail it used to hang on empty. Then what? Had Merle been high and broken down the door in a fit?

Daryl had no idea and he decided that had to wait. For now, he just needed to get settled and then get some rest.

He got his things from the truck and tried to fix the broken door. Normally he wouldn’t mind having it open but it was the woods after all. No bears or coyotes in the area, as far as he knew, but one could never be too careful. With difficulty he got it up and pressed the broken door up against the opening, closing out the wind and world the best he could. In the back he found an old wooden crate filled with empty moonshine-bottles, and he grabbed it and pulled it over so it helped keeping the broken wood standing.

When it was done, the cabin was dark and silent, and for the first time since he awoke from the first nightmare, Daryl could breathe a little easier.

…

The cabin only had two rooms. One was a living room with a small kitchen. It had couches a bookshelf and an old TV. The other room was a bedroom, small and with three ancient military cots cramped into it, all neatly made. Merle must have slept in the living room them. Fine by Daryl.

He crept into one of the cots but couldn’t fall asleep. Every time he tried, a nightmare would grab him and he would wake in the darkness, thinking he heard footsteps coming from outside his cell.

Each time it he took him several minutes to realize he wasn’t back at the station. Afterwards he would lie shaking in the cot, trying to will himself not to be so scared.

His plan had failed. The cabin was safer than the house, but he couldn’t turn his mind off.

He got no real sleep that night, or the next. The days he spent on the couch, watching some shit on the TV. He ate the food he had brought but otherwise did nothing but try to not think of anything. Not Walsh. Not Rick. Not Merle. The latter was the hardest, with his leather west was still hanging over the back of the couch. Daryl didn’t want to touch it.

He ate painkillers from Merle’s stash and drank the beers he had left behind. He went to bed at night and woke up in terror. He was constantly exhausted, barely able to do anything. It took days before he realized it was the darkness. He couldn’t sleep in it. So he started sleeping during the day. It helped.

He still got nightmares, but waking up in the light lessened his panic, and hearing the forest outside the cabin calmed him quickly. There was life out here. No stone-cold building with smooth floors and blinding light, but animals, wind blowing and leaves rustling.

Sleeping helped. He never really needed it much before, but going without for days was new to him and it wore him out. Getting some of it back helped both mood and spirit. His mind felt clearer but it still took time.

Besides, his body still felt broken. In the beginning, all he could do was sit still and breathe carefully, waiting impatiently to heal. And he did, but painfully slow.

The bruises faded and his little finger healed, though not real good and he had trouble bending it fully and it would still tender for months. When he could finally walk again without feeling like throwing up, he began to fix the cabin. He repaired the front door and cleaned out the trash. There was a whole lot of it.

His mind was only set on the work. He didn’t allow himself to think of anything else. But there was only so much he could do. The cabin wasn’t that big. It might be old but it was in good shape, Jess had seen to that. And even though he fixed the door and got an old radio going again, there was little to occupy his time with.

One day he got enough of the crappy TV and went in search of something to help him not thinking, and finally found it. Hidden away in a box in the back of the cabin, he found it. His crossbow.

Uncle Jess got it for him when was thirteen. Back then it had been real heavy and hard to handle. Uncle Jess had promised him he would grow into it, and he had been right. By the time he was seventeen, the crossbow was no different than a gun in his hands. He could shoot anything with it. And he was good. Far better than Merle who didn’t have the patient to hunt with anything that didn’t go off with a bang.

And just like that, Daryl had found his new distraction.

It took days before he got back into the old rhythm. How to move quietly enough; how to handle the bow; how to fix and repair the bolts he broke by hitting rocks and trees instead of squirrels. He was rusty.

But as his bruises turned yellow and greenish, his body seemed to remember what his mind had forgotten. He began to spend the most of his time in the wood, and the cabin became filled with animal hides in different states of curing.

It all helped him keep his own mind at bay, though a part of his him knew he was just drawing out time. He was hiding. After nearly a month living alone in the cabin, he had to realize it wouldn’t take long before he would need to make a trip home to get new supplies.

Thanks to his crossbow he didn’t starve, especially since he was getting better and better at hunting. Not having to think about food was a relief, for it meant he didn’t have to go back to town or the house to get some more. But summer would soon end and he needed to prepare for winter if he wanted to stay at the cabin. And he did. For now, he had no wish to live in the house ever again.

But the forest was still green and there were plenty of game. He pushed every thought of home and winter, and Merle and Rick aside, and instead focused on the weapon in his hands.

…

The constant fear he had carried around slowly ebbed away. It didn’t disappear, it never did and he knew it probably never would. Old fears didn’t leave, then why should the new ones.

Just like the fear of his dad, bitter as it was to admit, this was never going to go away.

He knew it with certainty when one day a branch caught his messy, tangled hair and tugged it hard as he tried to pull it free. For a second he was back in the cell, and Walsh had his fingers buried in his hair, wrestling his head back. Without even realizing it, Daryl grabbed his hunting knife and swiftly cut through the strands, releasing himself from its grasp.

When he returned to the cabin, he stood before the small mirror above the sink and slowly took in his appearance, something he had avoided ever since he arrived.

He was thin and had weary eyes. The bruises were gone but he looked hunted. Like prey. His beard had grown bushy and his eyes widened a little at the grey strands he saw in it. His hair had nearly grown past his ears and over his eyes, except for where he had crudely cut it in the forest, so it instead stood up straight in the air. Dark it was, and it made him look even paler.

Carefully and not thinking about anything, he grabbed his knife and continued his work from the forest. In the beginning he just trimmed it, cutting it to what he remembered being the old length, but when he didn’t see a reason not to continue, he kept cutting until his hair was only a few inches long, sticking up from his scalp like weed.

It looked lighter now. More brown than black. He gave the beard a round too, trimming it until he looked more or less like the old Daryl again. It felt odd seeing himself. He looked like a stranger. But the hair was out of the way and that was enough.

Somewhat satisfied with his new look, he went outside to cook the rabbit he had shot earlier.

…

He avoided it for as long as he could, but finally the real world came knocking. It happened one day when his crossbow broke.

He had been in the forest, aiming at rabbit, when suddenly the prod broke. With a loud crack, the fiber broke under the force of the string which got loose and was send flying straight into Daryl’s face where it snapped across his nose, making him yell and drop the crossbow unto the forest floor.

He cradled his nose with his hands, cursing as it felt like white-hot fire burning on his skin. Fucking hell, it hurt.

Cursing and with watering eyes, he kicked the crossbow, sending it flying a few feet before branches caught it and it once again fell to the ground.

He regretted it at once and ran to it, still holding his nose, and kneeled down to look it over.

With a sinking feeling he knew there was nothing he could do. It was good and broken. The right side of the prod had broken down by middle. It wasn’t clean and he had to bent it back and forth a few times before it broke off completely, pulling long strands of fiber with it as he did.

He sat there in the forest, with the broken crossbow in his hands, and realized what he now had to do. He returned to the cabin and placed the remains inside, not wanting to throw them out just yet.

Then he gathered his bag and a few other things, and went out to his truck. It had been nearly three months since he arrived at the cabin and fine pile of leaves and twigs covered his truck. As he climbed in and turned it on, he had to constantly remind himself that it was an hour tops before he was back. He had to go back to the house and get some cash and then to the store. An hour tops.

He repeated the words as he drove away from the cabin and out of the forest. An hour tops.

He drove way too fast and reached the house in record time, and this time he didn’t stay out of Merle’s room. He ransacked the entire house; looking all the places he knew Merle hid his money. He stuffed everything he found into his pockets, ignoring the burning shame he got stealing from his own brother.

Merle was a dick and he fucking deserved it, but Daryl was no thief. He had never fucking stolen anything before, and he promised himself to replace every dollar he found.

He had no idea what a new crossbow would cost, but he knew he had to get a new one if he wanted to stay at the cabin.

Having found what he could he walked out of the house, but not before stopping by the door, now seeing what he had missed when he first walked in. it was a very thick envelope. Carefully, he picked it up and saw his name written on the front.

He opened it and pulled out a big bundle of papers. He unfolded them and scanned the first one, feeling his mouth dry out.

It was papers about Merle’s trial, general information, dates and such. Apparently his brother’s trial had been last week. It didn’t say what it had ended with, but he seemed to read between the lines that should Merle get sentenced, he would go to jail for years. It even mentioned the prison with visiting times and all. He nearly snorted, so much for a trial.

Daryl sighed and stuffed the papers back. Real world indeed.

He wanted nothing more than to throw away the envelope, not wanting a reminder of it all, but of course he kept it. He threw it in the back of his truck and drove off, needing to get his hands on a new crossbow as soon as possible before his mind began to think too much about it all.

To his surprise, it went pretty fast, and much easier than expected.

There was a local store in town, selling everything related to guns and other weapons, including crossbows. Uncle Jess had bought Daryl’s there so many years ago, and he hoped he could do the same now.

He hadn’t spoken to a single person in over a month, and he felt like everyone he passed on the way looked at him and just _knew_. Knew who he was, what had happened. He had to hold himself back from glaring at them too harshly when they looked at his dirty clothes and the red mark across his nose as he hurried to the store.

The old, bearded guy behind the counter was helpful enough. He didn’t ask any uncomfortable questions as Daryl emptied his pockets for the many crumbled bills and placed them on the counter. Daryl answered a few questions about his former bow and Beardy seemed to know what he was talking about.

He went to the back and returned with a new crossbow. Daryl had expected a Horton like his old one, and was surprised when Beardy instead handed him a Stryker. It was bigger and slightly heavier than his Horton, but it felt good in his hands.

“How much?” he asked as he placed it back down on the counter.

“800 bucks,” Beardy said, and Daryl sighed. He couldn’t afford that. “Normally,” Beardy then continued. “But the rich bastard who bought this,” he gestured to the Stryker, “dropped it so the handle got scratched. Demanded to get a refund and now I can’t sell it as new.”

Daryl wasn’t sure he believed what he heard.

Beardy pointed at the small pile of cash Daryl had placed on the counter, “You have about 500$ there. It will be enough.”

Daryl had never accepted charity, in anyway, and his first instinct was to say no to the offer. But he needed the crossbow, and a quick look around the store told him he wouldn’t get anything this good at this price, so he accepted Beardy’s offer and left the store with a nearly brand new 380 Stryker.

A few bucks had escaped his pocket search earlier and he had enough to stop at the grocery store and buy some candy bars and some beer. Luxury he’d went without for a while now.

He felt something close to cheerfulness as he drove back to the cabin, constantly reaching out to touch the crossbow, feeling the smoothness of the prod and the power it promised.

But it quickly dwindled when he parked the truck and gathered his things, and spotted the envelope and remembered. With a sigh, he grabbed it and stuffed it into his pocket. Looked like he was going to visit his dear brother.

…

He was lead to a plastic chair and sat down before the glass. Felt like an old dance. He waited until they brought Merle out, cuffed and in a blue prison-suit. A guard stood behind Merle as he sat down and they both took the phone on the wall.

“Took ya lon’ enough,” grunted Merle but he had a smile on his ugly-ass face, and Daryl felt himself relax slightly.

“So? You goin’ somewhere?”

Merle grinned, “Easy, Son,” he pointed a finger at him, and Daryl realized how much he’d actually missed his brother. He hadn’t really allowed himself to think too much about Merle until this point.

“You seem okay,” Merle then said, eyes going over Daryl who was grateful that the bruises where long gone.

“I’m fine,” he said, “How are you doin’?”

Merle’s smile dropped, “Let’s cut the act, boy. We have lots to discuss.”

Daryl frowned, “What you talkin’ about?”

“Johnny called me after it all went shit, and he told me. About everythin’,” said Merle and his face might as well be cut from stone. Daryl felt his hands go cold.

“Don’t know what ya talkin’ ‘bout,” Daryl growled, very happy that the glass separated them. He glanced at the guard who was supposed to watch that Merle didn’t do anything stupid. He had a stern look on his face, but his eyes were far away.

Merle sent him a sharp look and leaned forward. He pointed a finger at him.

“Now, you tell me the truth, baby brother. Johnny told me about ya cop. He said he heard everythin’ you two lovebirds said to each other at the station,” Daryl swallowed, remembering the night Rick had come to him, and Johnny’s expression the next morning. Fuck, so that’s how the gang had known.

“I didn’t tell him anythin’,” Daryl said.

Merle’s eyes narrowed, “So you didn’t tell him about the meetin’?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell him you were doin’ business with ol’ Merle?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell him nothin’ as he fucked you like a bitch?”

“No!” snarled Daryl and smacked his hand on the small table before him. The guards around him looked over and he quickly got his hand down and bowed his head.

“Fine,” Merle said, “Keep ya knickers on, Son.”

He was breathing too hard. He nearly feared his lung might collapse from it. He needed Merle to trust him on this. He needed him. If he didn’t have Merle then…

He stared into Merle’s eyes and said slowly, “I didn’t tell no one.”

Merle just stared at him for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair, “You gotta understand why it’s hard to believe,” he said, “After all, it was ya cop who found me in the end.”

“What?”

Merle raised an eyebrow, “He didn’t tell ya? He came to the cabin, screaming and banging on the door. I was high as shit, didn’t hear nothin’ so he kicked in the door. Nearly shot his head off,” Merle chuckled at this, like it was a fond memory. Daryl stared at his brother with an open mouth. Rick had found Merle? But he had said Merle had come to them.

“Officer Grimes told me what they were doin’ to ya,” Merle looked down and moved his jaw slightly; “He suggested a trade.”

The phone call Walsh got before he could-- it must have been Rick. Rick had found Merle and told him about… about it all.

“H-he came to the cabin?”

_I don’t know how to fix this_

Merle nodded, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Daryl clenched the phone in his hand, trying to make sense of it all. Rick had found Merle and made sure he turned himself in? So what, did this mean he had saved Daryl ass? Literally?

No, it wasn’t- _couldn’t_ be true.

“He really didn’t tell ya?” Merle asked. The answer must have been all too clear on Daryl’s face. Merle’s eyes widen and he leaned back slightly in his chair, a strange expression slowly crawling over his face. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, “You fucking love him, don’t ya?”

This brought Daryl back, “No, I don’t,” he said, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.

“So the ol’ man was right. Ya are a faggot.”

Daryl felt his hackles rise, “Shut up, Merle,” he hissed and his brother grinned slightly.

“Still fight in ya, good. ‘course ya gonna need it,” he leaned in towards the glass, “I told the gang to leave ya alone, but my word only goes so far from in here. So watch ya back.”

Daryl didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t Merle care that Daryl was-- that he and Rick had-- and he was protecting him from the gang? A lump at the size of fucking Texas appeared in Daryl’s throat. He didn’t know what to say. But luckily for him, Merle wasn’t done.

“I mean it, Daryl,” he leaned forward, eyes narrowing and pointed at him, “I can’t control them. That bitch Mason is probably crawlin’ his way up top as we speak. Son of a bitch always wanted the seat, and if he gets it, they might come for you. Take care out there, baby brother, you and ya cop.”

“We’re not… we aren’t…” Daryl tried weakly to explain exactly how much he and Rick wasn’t together, how they never could be, especially now with the gang on his ass.

Merle didn’t show any emotion. He just looked at Daryl who tried not to squirm under his brother’s gaze. He had never seen Merle like this, so calm, so… concerned.

It was not something he connected with his brother, concern for Daryl.

Sure Merle had done his when they were younger. He had taken his hits from their dad, he had beaten up that kid who gave Daryl hell in the schoolyard, and he had wiped away the blood and patched him up after a hellish beating. All those moments were clear as light in Daryl’s mind, and he kept them close to remember what the word _family_ meant to him.

Unfortunately, those moments were few and beginning to get so faded, that others began to cloud over them.

All the times Merle got home just as drunk as their dad, and began arguing and fighting with the old man before storming out. All the times he was high as shit in his bedroom and Daryl carefully peeked through his door, fearing he one day might fight his brother lifeless on the bed. All the times Merle brought his friends home and they passed their time by getting Daryl drunk as fuck, and laugh when he puked his guts out. All the times Merle dragged him to Jake’s and made him look like a fool in front of his gang. All the times he left Daryl to clean up his shit.

All these memories ran through his mind, reminding him just how much an ass his brother was. And still, Daryl couldn’t deny that no matter how much hell Merle had dragged him through, he was still his brother. His kin. And in the end, he had saved Daryl. Rick might have tracked him down, but Merle could have chosen to stay at the cabin, or fled to another state. Or to Mexico. He didn’t have to come back and save Daryl. And yet he had.

He cared.

Even now, sitting cuffed in a fucking jumpsuit surrounded by guard, he looked at Daryl and seemed… concerned. And over what? The cop who had busted his ass.

It was all too much. Daryl blinked hard and then bowed his head. He wasn’t going to fucking cry. He wasn’t. He hadn’t felt a storm of emotion like this in a long time. Not since his arrest at Jake’s. Fear, terror, hatred, anger, all of those he had felt plenty of lately. But _this_ felt so strange, so foreign that Daryl just didn’t know what to do, to say.

He supposed it was nice, to feel something different, but still. What was he supposed to do with this? Merle didn’t do nothing either, he just watched Daryl as the storm went through him. And then the bastard just smiled.

Not explaining why, he just smiled, or grinned as it more likely was. Ass-hole.

Their time ended much too soon, but still before Daryl could embarrass himself before Merle by crying openly. They said an awkward goodbye and as Merle was led away; his brother had winked at him and yelled out loud enough for the entire room to hear, “Remember condoms, lil‘brother. Cops got all kinds of diseases.”

Daryl checked out of the prison with record speed, cheeks burning, and ran back to his truck. When he was safe inside, sitting behind the wheel, he finally let it all run over him. Merle that bastard. He knew it all, he knew every little thing. Well maybe not _everything_. He knew about Daryl and Rick, but not for how long they had been meeting. He knew Rick was a cop and what his gang wanted to do to Daryl, and Rick, if they ever got him alone.

He knew it all, and he still called Daryl for his brother.

“Fuck you, Merle,” Daryl whispered and bit his lip. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and blinked his eyes until they cleared. He looked at the prison, its grey, high walls and the fence around it. His only family was in there now. He was alone out here. It was a fucking lonely feeling but one he found a strange peace in. He had a brother. A fear he didn’t know he’d even had began to disappear.

But then doubt began to nudge at him. What Merle had said about Rick. Daryl wasn’t sure he believed it. He needed to be sure. He needed to know.

…

It took nearly two weeks until he got his ass moving. He kept telling himself it was fair, he needed time to psyche himself up to the task. He was not afraid, nope, not at all.

Plus he had needed to find out how he would get hold of Rick. After all, he had thrown out his phone number and his memory was shit with numbers. He had briefly thought about returning to Rosie’s to look for him, but that idea went out of the window after barely a second.  

In the end he realized he had to call the station. The papers he had gotten from the envelope held all the information he could ever need about that place. Only problem was just that he didn’t have a phone, and this time he couldn’t borrow the one at the garage.

He didn’t know anyone good enough to borrow one, so he ended up at the train station with a payphone.

To venture back into public was a trial. Every face in the crowd around him looked like a well-known gang member, and he almost jumped out of his skin every time someone looked at him. His nerves were shredded by the time he found the payphone, hand fumbling with his pockets to fish out enough coins for the damn thing.

He dropped the coin four times before he finally got it in and pressed the right number, and then he waited.

It was some secretary lady who answered and he someone managed to stutter out his request of speaking to Rick Grimes.

“ _I’m sorry, Sir, but Rick Grimes doesn’t work at this station anymore_ ,” the woman said after a short pause.

“What?”

“ _Yes, he hasn’t worked here in several months now._ ”

Daryl stared at the machine, mind feeling empty. “Why?”

“ _I’m not allowed to say_ ,” the woman said, “ _Is there anything else I can help with_?”

“C-can you give me his number?”

“ _I’m sorry, Sir, but I’m not allowed to pass on such information._ ”

“But, I’m… an old friend,” now there was a lie if he ever told one.

“ _I’m sorry, but I can’t_.”

Daryl had to bite his lip or he would have yelled something at her even Merle would be shocked to hear. He took a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control.

“Please,” he gritted out.

“ _I can’t_ ,” she said firmly, “ _Goodbye, Sir_ ,” and with that she hung up, leaving Daryl frozen, staring at the payphone.

He had no idea what to do now.

Rick didn’t work at the station anymore? Had he been fired, or did he quit? And why?

He’d had a good job. Deputy Sheriff and had been good at his job since he managed to bust Merle and his shitty gang. Plus his and his wife had split up. Didn’t that mean he needed to pay alimony or some shit like that? No way in hell he would quit his job.

Then he had been fired. But why? He had gotten Merle in the end, and even though Daryl got to walk, they still busted the town’s gang red-handed. There was no reason to fire him… unless…

Did they know? Did they know about him and Daryl?

Something close to pure terror ran down Daryl’s back. It made sense. If they found out Rick had been fucking the brother of the town’s gang leader, they would think he could have done something to perhaps mess with the investigation. Merle had gotten away after all only to be brought back in by Rick, in exchanged for Daryl’s freedom.

It all made too much sense.

And now with Merle’s revelation about his arrest swirling in the back of his head, Daryl was sure. Rick had been fired because of him.

He had no idea what to do with all this. Did this mean he owed Rick somehow?

_I don’t know how to fix this_

He had found Merle and brought him in; he had saved Daryl from Walsh and his comrades, he had been the one bright thing in Daryl’s life. And yet…

He had known. He had fucking known and he had left Daryl in that cell. Left him with Walsh.

No, Daryl didn’t owe him shit.

But he still needed to talk to him. For some reason he needed to see him, to talk, to somehow put an end to all these feelings storming through him. He didn’t know why and he didn’t care, he just needed to see Rick.

Only he couldn’t. The secretary lady had refused to give him a number.

_He hasn’t worked here in several months now_

Fucking hell. Months? Daryl thought back, mind racing. Then Rick could have been fired anywhere between the last time he saw him and… two months ago? No matter what it was a long time. Had Rick found a new job?

Daryl couldn’t really see Rick as anything but a cop now. The image of the uniform with the star and the nametag on was just seared into his memory. Rick Grimes was a cop, no fucking doubt. It was a bitter thought, but not one Daryl couldn’t deny.

He must have moved away then. Why would he stay?

The town was now a place where he had been divorced, fired and fucked the younger brother of a scumbag gang leader. Daryl wouldn’t have stayed. Daryl hadn’t stayed. He had run away, hadn’t he, so why wouldn’t Rick do the same.

Get out of this hellhole. Find a new town with a new uniform, maybe a new girl. A new life.

Daryl let the thought sink in.

Rick was gone.

His chest clenched painfully and he had to close his eyes shut. His mind kept repeating the words.

Rick was gone.

Daryl had no number, no address, no nothing except the memories of demanding lips against his, and a hot body pressing up against him.

He left the train station, for once not feeling numb or empty, but hurting and cursing himself.

Why hadn’t he kept the number? Why hadn’t he tried to remember it better? Why hadn’t he learned more about Rick?

Why hadn’t he let Rick know more about him?

He had been desperate to keep it all low-key. To make sure no one knew about them, that Rick didn’t know about him. It had worked, in the beginning at least. Not knowing had been safe. Meet, fuck, go separate ways. It had worked and it had been so good.

He had been so afraid. Of Merle finding out about them, of Rick finding out about him, and in the end it had all been for nothing.

His secret had gone out the window in one single night, followed by the worst hell Daryl could ever imagine. He had been so mad at Rick, at Merle, and everyone.

And now he had none of them. Sure, Merle still considered him family, but he was locked away, gone, and so was Rick. Gone, and there was no way to find him.

Rick was gone.

Daryl was alone. Alone in a town where the gang knew about him and Rick. And now the cops knew too.

And just like that the fear was back. The cops knew too. Everyone fucking knew.

When he was finally back in the sanctuary of the cabin, looking around at the life he had built up here in the woods, he realized something. He couldn’t stay.

They knew, they all fucking knew. And he wouldn’t give them the change to act on it.

The answer was so simple. He couldn’t stay.

Something inside him broke loose and seemed to disappear, making him feel so much lighter. He couldn’t stay, so that meant he had to go. Go away, far away from here.

He nearly laughed.

There was nothing for him here. Nothing. No job, no friends, no family, no…

Fuck the house, fuck the cabin. Fuck this town and the gang. Fuck Walsh and every cop. Fuck them all. He was getting out. Out and away.

In no time, he had packed down the cabin. It was just like back then, at the house. Everything he knew he would need, or anything he found useful, he packed down into two bags. He wrapped up the skins and pelts from the animal he had killed, figuring he could sell them somewhere.

Everything else; the small amount of clothes he had, a few wooden figures, his hunting knife and his crossbow got neatly placed in his truck. He nearly emptied the cabin, not really knowing what he might need in the future.

It worried him though, and he knew he had to return to the house to get some stuff in case he didn’t find a place to stay during the winter. He didn’t like the idea of going back to town now. They knew, they all knew.

If Merle was right and the Mason, or what his name was, got Merle position as top-dog, then they would come after Daryl. It wasn’t a matter of _if_ but of _when_. Homophobic bastards every one of them.

_Don’t ever show your face here again, you filthy cop-fucker. Or we’ll make sure ol’ Merle won’t have any family left when he gets out_

No, he didn’t doubt it one bit. If they saw him he was in trouble. If they caught him, he was dead meat. He had to be careful.

…

The house looked like hell.

The door was gone, the windows were trashed. Graffiti were everywhere on the walls, both inside and out, with words like _faggot_ , _bitch_ and _cop-fucker_ screaming at him in blood red paint. So did the threat they held.

It hadn’t been more than two weeks since he had been here last. Had Mason really gotten Merle’s position? No matter what, Daryl thanked whatever there was to thank that Uncle Jess had built that cabin. There was no end to possibilities of what they would have done to Daryl had they found him here.

The thought sent shivers down his back, and he looked around, nearly expecting them to jump out from behind a tree or a bush. They didn’t however. It actually looked like they hadn’t been here for a while.

A long while, he noted, as he carefully entered his former home. The door had been kicked in, much like it had in the cabin, and as he picked it up and put it aside, he saw something.

On the broken frame of the door he found a note. The papers was stained and crumbled in a way paper only gets when it had been soaked through and then dried again. He wasn’t able to tell how old the note was, since there was no date on it. Luckily the words were still somewhat readable. The note was short and to the point, and from his boss at the garage. He was fired.

It surprised him. Not the fact that he was fired, he had figured as much. After all he had been arrested and failed to show up at work after he had been released. No surprise there.

But the fact that his boss apparently had taken the time to drive all the way out here to give him this note was a surprise. And even more when he turned it around, reading the rest. It told him that he could pick up his last few paychecks anytime he wanted. They waited for him at the office. He curled the note up and threw it in the trash, not wanting anyone else to read it.

There wasn’t much in the house he could use. Some tools, clothes, an extra pair of boots, and that was that.

There was nothing left for him here. His plan had been to leave after this, but apparently he had another stop.

…

He hadn’t expected the sharp pang of longing that hit when he entered the garage.

The smell of oil, metal and welding hit him like a brick of memories and he allowed himself to close his eyes and just let it in. The forest might be freedom and open air and shit, but _this_ was pure heaven.

His fingers itched to do something, to pick up his tools, to work, and he was surprised by the urge. He hadn’t felt something like that in a while, and he realized how much he actually missed it.

But there wasn’t anything he could do.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets before he could reach for a wrench, Daryl made his way to the office, knocking on Boss’ door and waited for an answer before entering.

It looked like it always did. Books and magazines spread all around. Oil-stained rags lying here and there and the ancient coffee maker in the corner. A calendar with nude chicks hung on the wall, alongside posters with vintage cars. The last time Daryl had been in here he had spoken with Rick on the phone, for the first and the last time. He tried really hard not to think about that, and instead turned his attention towards his boss.

Boss sat, like he almost always did, behind his desk, looking at the books – the guy was old school as hell and thought computers was something the devil had made – with a deep frown on his forehead. He looked up when Daryl entered and for a second his face was just emotionless, then it broke and he smiled warmly. Daryl couldn’t help but feel relieved.

“Well, look at that,” Boss said and stood up, “Daryl! It’s good to see you, boy.” he held out his hand which Daryl forced himself to shake.

“Hey Boss,” Daryl said and had to clear his throat a little. He sounded hoarse.

“Damn good to see you, Daryl. We were worried,” Boss said and took his seat, gesturing at Daryl to take the empty chair they usually used for guests. Daryl preferred to stand but Boss was the boss for a reason. You didn’t say no to that man, so he sat down on the edge of the chair.

“I’ve been… busy,” Daryl said. Boss took a long look at him, probably taking in his dirty clothes and his hair, freshly cut and by that probably sticking up in every direction. He nearly wished he still had his long hair, just so he could have something to hide behind. Instead he just look down, letting the boss look at him.

“You look thin,” Boss finally said, and in a way that nearly sounded concerned. Daryl shrugged. Wasn’t something he had noticed much.

Boss kept looking at him and Daryl began to squirm in his seat. Finally Boss just sighed and shifted a little in his seat. “Well, not much to say, I guess. You’re here for your money, am I right?”

Daryl nodded.

“Thought so. Well, they are yours, you earned them all right. But I hope you’re not here to get your job back.”

“Nah, nothin’ like that,” Daryl said in a low voice.

Boss nodded approvingly, “Good. Can’t stand ass-lickers. You get your money but I won’t rehire you. Rules are rules, and after all that trouble with your brother…” Boss let it hang in the air, and Daryl let his head fall forward slightly.

“I know.”

“Taking it as a man I see, good,” Boss said, “Well, you can get your things from your locker and I’ll have the checks ready when you get back.”

With a nod Daryl hurried from the office and down the hall to the lockers. His steps slowed as he walked. He was suddenly very aware of that this might be the last time he would set his feet in the garage. He then took his time to just look around as he gathered his things.

He found his tools and he emptied his locker for the few personal items he had in there. A few spare shirts, old pictures of cars he once dreamed of owning, some manuals, and a few more things. He borrowed a plastic bag from the employers kitchen and stuffed it all inside, then he walked back to the office where Boss was stuffing his checks into an envelope.

“There we go,” Boss said and handed over the envelope.

Daryl took it with a grateful smile, “Thanks, Boss." 

“Take care, Daryl. And stop by if you get the chance.”

Daryl promised and then left the office, stuffing the envelope into his pocket. He didn’t like the clenching feeling he got as he walked away from the garage.

…

It took every amount of self-control for Daryl to walk into the bank and get his money. The somewhat pleasant goodbye he had made with the Boss was gone the second he stepped inside the polished, white building.

He was fucking terrified, and it didn’t help that armed officers stood by the door. As quickly as possible, he got his money and left the bank, hurrying back to his truck were he closed the door hard as soon as he had gotten inside.

He took his time, just sitting behind the wheel of his truck, trying to stop his hands from shaking. When he finally had it under control, somewhat, he looked at the money he had gotten, and nearly dropped his jaw straight off. There was a lot. As in, a hell of a lot.

It was way more than he had earned, way more than he had ever earned.

It had to be a mistake; it was insane, only… Boss didn’t make mistake. Never. He was a man who had his head on right and nothing came past him. He didn’t make mistakes.

Daryl stared at the money. There was enough to last a good while. Fucking hell.

He toyed with the thought of returning them, but there was no way in hell Boss would take them back. He would rather kick Daryl’s ass. Daryl huffed out a laugh. He had to keep them then. He shook his head. Boss just had to do him right. Fucker.

With that done, Daryl turned on his truck and drove out on the main road. He left town then. The place he had been born and raised. And he didn’t look back.

…

The money lasted through the winter.

Daryl spent the white season driving from town to town but never leaver Georgia. He didn’t really dare. His money was used on cheap motels and diner food, small trinkets and keeping his truck alive.

As the snow melted and color returned to the world, Daryl returned to the forest, hunting as before. He found a guy renting out his hunting cabin, and it was a familiar routine he fell into. By then, he hadn’t seen Merle in nearly seven months, though he tried to write letters to his brother, to at least let him know he was alive. He never gave Merle a return address. He never stayed in one place long enough, and even if he did, Merle wouldn’t write him.

The money ran out eventually. Around February, his truck suddenly crashed and he spent whatever he had left to get it going again. But since it was the last of his money Daryl had to leave the cabin. He packed his things and drove to town, searching for a job, which was getting hard. His people skills were rusty. He also didn’t have any personal papers, something he hadn’t packet from home.

In the end he turned to the diner, spending his last dollars on some cheap food, while looking through a paper someone had left at his table. It took some searching, but he finally found something. Well, maybe not something, but a slim chance.

He paid for his food and drove out of town, a good while until he saw a sign pointing to a small trail leaving the main road.

 _Greene Farm_ , it said.

It only took a few minutes before he reached a small farmhouse. White and old and looking like something out of an old, sugary family movie.

Leaving the car and walked over to the front door was one of the hardest things he’d done in awhile, all the time clenching the ad from the paper tightly in his hand. He knocked on the door but no one answered. He knocked again but there was only silence. Finally he left the porch and decided to walk around, seeing if he could find someone.

It was a nice place. The house was big but not overly so and was surrounded by nature. Open fields as on one side, a thick forest to another. It was a green forest that stretched around the ground, surrounding the fields and the pens where a few horses grassed. It promised good game and was hopefully something could add to his set of skills. He didn’t know how the farmer would have it with hunting.

By the edge of the ground was a barn and Daryl made the long walk down there, hoping to finally find someone. Finally he heard voices. He walked closer; preparing himself to met the owner and hopefully get himself a job.

He was a good fifteen feet from the barn when the door opened, and an older man stepped outside. His hair was white and he had a cheerful smile on his face, with faded quickly when he saw Daryl. Whatever the old timer was saying died as he stopped in his tracks.

Daryl nearly lifted his hands in a peaceful gesture – he knew how he looked after all – and was about to explain to the old man what he was doing here, when another man, a younger one exited the barn.

“Hershel, perhaps we can-?” the man stopped dead beside the old guy, eyes wide and mouth open in whatever word he was about to say.

Daryl stared at him, not believing his eyes, but knowing it was true. Just like the night at Jake’s.

His hair was longer and curled at his neck. His beard was a thick stubble on sun-tanned his chin and cheeks, and he seemed to have gained some weight, though he still looked lean and strong. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but a dark pair of jeans and an old shirt. He wore gloves, the kinds that were used in the garden, and he had dirt all over his clothes.

He looked like an entirely different man but Daryl knew it was him. He would know him anywhere.

It was Rick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

…

“You can ask, you know.” Daryl said, accepting his beer from Rosie, and grinned slightly at the way Rick jumped in his seat.

Rick looked up, blinking and blushing a little in embarrassment. “Sorry, I-I didn’t mean to stare.”

“Chill, no harm,” Daryl said and shifted his arm so the light caught it better. The scar. One of the few he didn’t try to hide. One of the few he didn’t hate. It was long and wide, and nearly invisible after years of sun tanning it.

How long had it been? Fifteen years? Twenty? He wasn’t sure.

“What, ehm… how…” Rick gestured vaguely to the scar. His face was carefully set, like he feared he was offending Daryl by asking. Daryl huffed in amusement. He understood though that Rick hesitated. After last time, when Rick had nearly torn Daryl’s lip bloody, it was to be expected that he was a little nervous. Daryl hadn’t minded, still didn’t. The memory was enough to send a pleasant warmth down south.

Rick grinned a little embarrassed. Still amused, Daryl moved his arm a little closer to Rick.

When Rick finally reached out and let his fingers run over the scar, it sent shivers down Daryl’s back. The scar was long and pretty wide, and had bled like a bitch back then. Now he barely noticed it.

“Huntin’ accident,” he said, running a finger over the scar and letting it brush against Rick’s slightly, “buck wasn’t dead and kicked out at my brother’s knife. The blade slipped.”

He remembered the day so clearly. Merle had freaked out, cursing and yelling at Daryl like it had been his fault the knife had slipped. He had bleed pretty badly, but by the time they got home, it had stopped somewhat, and they agreed a hospital was unnecessary. It had taken forever to heal. Hadn’t helped that Daryl had a habit of picking at his wounds.

“You hunt?”

Daryl shrugged, “Not anymore. Did once, when I was a kid. My Uncle Jess has a cabin up in the woods, by the lake. Good spot, lots of game. Secluded place, you know?”

Rick smiled, “Sounds like a good time.”

“It was.”

“Ever go back there?”

Daryl shook his head, “Nah, got work and stuff. But it’s a good place when you want to be alone.”

Rick nodded thoughtfully, and then turned and smiled at Daryl. “Wanna get out of here?”

Daryl emptied his beer and nodded. Rick threw a few bills to Rosie and then stood up. He waited for Daryl who grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and then followed Rick out of the bar.

He led them outside and towards the shadow of the trees, and Daryl wondered as he followed Rick, an almost complete stranger. Was he ever going to able to say no to that smile?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it finally is.
> 
> I do apologize for the wait. 
> 
> So many of you kind people requested a happy ending for Daryl, and honestly, it wasn’t planned. While I adore happy endings, they are not something I usually write. It’s not in my nature. Anyway, I decided to give it a go, but it was harder than I thought. It seems I was too mean on Daryl. I had so much trouble trying to drag him back from all the crap I put him through. 
> 
> It’s not perfect and I don’t think it will ever be, but here it is. The last chapter. Well, not totally, I got a tiny epilogue coming after this.  
> I hope this ending somehow does the story justice. This is probably the last WD fic I’ll ever write. The characters are just too emotional, almost no matter what situation I put them in. They are hard to write. Still, this was fun, and the support I got was nothing short of overwhelming. Thank you so much!
> 
> But yeah, this is the end. Anything else to say…
> 
> Uncle Jess is borrowed from the WG game Survival Instinct (Yes, I still like that game!), so is the cabin.
> 
> The title is of course a word-play on the never-have-I-ever game Daryl plays with Beth. 
> 
> I think that’s it. Any questions you can find me on tumblr! ^^
> 
> Thank you so much!


	9. Epilogue

It wasn’t perfect. It was never perfect.

Too many things could set it off. A look, a smile, and slide of fingers against skin and Daryl would be right back in that cell.

Rick constantly spotted a black eye or scratches, and he still held Daryl as he shook with fear, not caring how many times he got jabbed with an elbow and snarled at.

No, it would never be perfect. Yet Daryl let him slip into his bed after the light had been turned off. He let him hold him, trace his scars with tender touches that felt like promises, and scared him, for when had promises ever been kept?

He let Rick hold him, kiss him, fuck him carefully after a day of hard work, and he liked it, needed it. Needed the contact, the warmth. Daryl understood why he needed this, but what Rick wanted with something so broken as him was beyond his imagination.

During the day they barely touched. They didn’t know what Hershel would say to it, and the man was suspicious about Daryl as it was, thanks to Rick’s constant bruises. The nights were theirs however, no matter how often it went wrong.

But Rick didn’t give up. He didn’t force or press Daryl, but he always came back, even after the time Daryl had bit him. Sunk his teeth into his arm like some crazed animal.

He always came back. And Daryl always hoped he would.

Rick kept saying he just needed time. Daryl wasn’t so sure. It had been more than a year since those nights in the cell, and still he woke in terror. It wasn’t time he needed. He didn’t know what he needed.

But at the moment he had enough.

He had work, food and a bed at night. He had Rick and whatever they had together, fragile and so fucking far from perfect, was enough for him. For now, he didn’t need anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the next chapter is where all the action will come in. 
> 
> This is going to be a fast-paced story but with a slow update. I'm sorry but The Musketeers are clawing my attention.
> 
> Anyway, the future will bring violence, very shady cops, threats of rape and a lot of heartbreak and hurt Daryl. So until then.


End file.
